


No Time Like the Present

by waterbird13



Series: This Time [1]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Building Relationship, Child Murder, Discussions of sex, Multi, Murder, Non-Graphic Violence, Violence, non-graphic sex scene, past Damien Moreau/Eliot Spencer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3556844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterbird13/pseuds/waterbird13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot's past with Damien Moreau is even more complicated than most people know about, and of course that would come up again when dealing with his incredibly complicated present feelings for Parker and Hardison. Eliot isn't a hundred percent sure how love works, but he's pretty positive it exists only to bite him in the ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone!  
> Welcome to my quite long Leverage OT3 fic. I hope you enjoy.  
> This fic contains: a developing relationship between Parker, Hardison, and Eliot (and all associated pining), a past relationship between Eliot and Damien Moreau (told in flashback scenes), Eliot Spencer with kind of shitty self-esteem, a non-graphic sex scene and non-graphic discussion of sex, and murder (including the murder of children) that is not overly graphic but be aware that it is present.  
> Although this isn't explicit in the story, nor do I think it's something Eliot would blatantly think about, I did write this from a perspective of Eliot being bisexual, demiromantic (my headcanon), and tried to reflect that as accurately as possible, so that might be a good thing to know.  
> Thank you so much to everyone who listened to me whine about writing this fic, and special thanks to my beta, hxntersammy, who did a fantastic job helping me get this thing presentable for you all.

            Realizing he loves them physically hurts. It’s like a knife to the gut, a slow-bleed burning at him, bleeding him dry.

            At first, he convinces himself that maybe he’s wrong. Maybe he doesn’t love them. He doesn’t know much about love, after all. He’s only ever loved one (two) person, and this doesn’t feel like that.

            Maybe it’s just friendship, his desire to protect them, the fact that they are a team and his responsibility. He doesn’t feel about them quite the way he felt about Aimee, or the way he felt about him.

            But it doesn’t feel like a friendship, either. It doesn’t feel like what he felt for Nate and Sophie, or any of his military buddies, or anyone else he’s ever cared about. It’s different.

            Love is...complicated. And better off left alone, really, but Eliot’s long ago realized that he doesn’t get much of a say when it sneaks up and surprises him.

            It may be love, but it doesn’t matter. Parker and Hardison have a good thing going between them and Eliot will not ruin that, will not insert himself between them and break them. It’s his job to protect them, and what they have, their relationship, counts as something to protect.

            He can subjugate his feelings just like any other, like pain, fear, rage, grief, shove them down and pretend they’re not there. It’s almost too easy.

            If he picks a few more fights, picks up a few more random fucks, spends more late nights at the Pub, no one says anything. It doesn’t help, but he keeps trying.

 

_When Eliot met him, he had long since decided love was a fluke. It wasn’t something he was particularly interested in at the time, anyways. Once and the crashing failure that had been was more than enough._

_What he was interested in was a job. He was long done with the U.S. Military, and the work he’d been doing for military contractors was getting dirtier and dirtier. Branching out when the occasional offer came wasn’t much of a stretch. He developed a certain skill set, complementary to the ones the military and contracting work had taught him._

_And then Moreau had offered him something more permanent. It started slowly, a job here and there. They were tests, Eliot knew. But, four bodies no one would ever find later, Eliot was invited to meet the man himself. Moreau was an up-and-comer with an already long list of enemies. Eliot saw the shot coming, and it missed its mark and found Eliot’s shoulder instead. That had been promising, but when Eliot had brought Moreau the shooter, mostly still alive, awaiting judgment, things had been sealed from there._

_Personal security, Moreau had called it, but he wasn’t just some body guard. Moreau had plenty of men enemies could shoot full of holes, if he needed them. No, he needed Eliot for more. He needed his skills, his brain, his dedication. He needed someone to follow every order, to do the toughest jobs, to lead the operations Moreau considered beneath himself. He needed someone with loyalty, and Eliot had that in spades, for the right person._

_He would later realize that Moreau was not the right person. Moreau was a killer manipulating a game of chess, and being his knight didn’t make Eliot any more or less dispensable than anyone else. Moreau was a cold, deadly bastard with every bit of conscious wiped away. Perhaps it was never there._

_But Moreau was also the first person to really take Eliot in, the first person to really use him effectively in years. Maybe ever. It was a role he filled well, and Moreau clearly wanted him in it. He was an affective man, a good leader, and drawing out Eliot’s loyalty--especially since he’d been so long without having anyone to give it to--seemed almost easy for him._

_When Eliot first accepted the job offer from Damien Moreau, he wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination looking for love. A place to belong was even more than he would have asked for. Nevertheless, that was what he found._

 

            Parker has some weird ideas about what’s acceptable and what isn’t, where boundaries are. He wakes up to her sitting at the foot of his bed, watching him intensely. He doesn’t even know how long she’s been there. She’s the only person he knows who can come up on him while he’s sleeping and not wake him, but he never sleeps particularly well. One twitch, one wrong wiggle, and he would have woken.

            He glares at her and sits up, but doesn’t say anything. Technically, it’s her bed, or her and Hardison’s, shoved in the corner of the little spare bedroom in their apartment above the Pub. He’s been sleeping here more nights than not--more nights than he should--but that doesn’t make it his.

            It’s comforting, to know they’re nearby, to know he’ll hear and be there immediately if they need them. He’s more reluctant to admit that the whole place smells like them in a way his apartment just doesn’t, and he’s never slept so well as he does surrounded by them, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t true.

            “What do you want?” he grouches, sitting up. The blankets pool around his hips, leaving his chest bare to the morning chill. The blankets are incredibly soft against his skin. They hadn’t been, at first, but by the third time he’d spent the night, they’d been changed out with soft, warm, nice, expensive things. Eliots always wants to laugh, because he’s slept on far worse than scratchy sheets in his life. Still, he appreciates it, even if he doesn’t know how to say anything about it.

            Parker shrugs. “It’s breakfast time. You said you’d make pancakes.”

            Eliot has no memory of saying that, but he also knows he’s not getting out of it now. “Gimme five minutes to get dressed,” he says.

            She leaves. She doesn’t shut the door all the way, but he heard her walk away, so it’s not like she’s watching and he’s had modesty pretty well beat out of him since he was eighteen, anyway.

            He puts on fresh clothes. The closet is half-filled, mostly clothes for various jobs, clothes well-worn personas might wear, but some are his, now, too. He shouldn’t let himself have this here, shouldn’t insinuate himself in their life this much. It’s one thing to have clothes for the job at what technically is their office, completely different to have his own stuff in their space.

            He tells himself it’s for security reasons, that he’s just security, and pulls on clean clothes. He’d take a shower, but Parker’s Parker and she’d probably pick the lock, demanding he hurry up and get her pancakes.

            Hardison’s already downstairs, at his computer, and raises one hand in greeting when Eliot walks past. Parker is god-knows where, although Eliot is confident the smell of cooking pancakes will draw her out.

            He puts bananas in the batter because these two just never eat enough fruit, and slices up some more to throw on top. When they first stack is done, Parker is sitting at the table as if she’s always been there, and Eliot hands her the plate. He deliberately doesn’t watch as she pours enough syrup to give mere mortals a cavity, instead opting to focus on the next cooking pancake. The next plate is Hardison’s, then a stack of seconds for them to split, then a stack for himself.

            Breakfast is a weirdly comfortable affair, even if Eliot grimaces over how much syrup Parker pours on everything and pointedly pretends not to notice how Hardison ignores the bananas on top of his pancakes. It’s domestic and comfortable. Eliot wolfs down his food, decides against seconds, and throws his plate in the sink to wash later, mumbling about going for a run before vanishing upstairs to change. He doesn’t belong in that moment, even if he did cook the breakfast.

 

_It became a habit. Come back, shower, scrub away the blood if it had been that type of day. Shave, dry and comb his hair, and then put on a nice suit._

_Moreau had a dress code. It came with a higher price tag than the last one that had been enforced on Eliot, but he understood dress codes well enough._

_Then he would accompany Moreau wherever he was going that night. Usually to dinner, sometimes with business partners, sometimes with romantic partners, sometimes alone. He had a personal chef but he never seemed to eat in, and it was Eliot’s job to make sure Moreau was safe on these exploits._

_That night, Moreau was alone, so Eliot was invited to eat at his table, rather than the next one over. He positioned Moreau near the wall and slid his own chair around, affording himself a view of the entire restaurant._

_As usual, Moreau chuckled. “You worry too much, my friend,” he said. Eliot had long since stopped pointing out the number of people who had tried to kill Moreau, not arguing the point but not surrendering his vigilance, either._

_Moreau ordered for them both, expensive wine and multiple expensive courses. Eliot didn’t yet speak Italian--it had never been useful in his previous line of work--although he was learning._

_When the wine came, Eliot declined, but Moreau cajoled him to have a drink with a smile. “You worry too much,” he repeated. “Let loose, my friend. Live a little.”_

_Eliot preferred beer, and Moreau knew that full well, but Eliot sipped at the wine regardless._

_Eliot wished Moreau would eat at home, with a vetted chef Eliot could watch preparing his meals. Instead, he preferred to eat out, giving anyone who wanted ample opportunity to poison his food. He laughed when Eliot insisted on testing it first, but Eliot took his job seriously._

_“You would die to protect me, wouldn’t you?” Moreau asked him seriously, looking at him over a half-raised forkful of steak._

_Eliot swallowed and nodded. It was no secret. He had signed his life away to protect others at eighteen. Moreau was different, everything was different, but at least he felt like Moreau would appreciate the sacrifice, even a little bit._

_Moreau smiled. “Loyalty like that is so hard to come by,” he mused. Eliot expected him to say more, but he merely poured Eliot more wine. “Drink up, my friend.”_

_Eliot drank, and ate what Moreau put in front of him. It was Italy, and dinner was a long, lingering affair. Usually that would make Eliot twitchy. But the wine set him at ease. He tried to assure himself it was just the wine, and had nothing to do with the company._

_Dinner ended, and Eliot cursed himself when he realized how low the level in his wineglass had gotten. He hadn’t drank that much in the grand scheme of things--he was careful, always careful--but even that much seemed too much when he considered still having to safely get Moreau to the car. They made it without incident, and Eliot was glad._

_“You worry too much,” Moreau commented again, signaling for the driver to move. Eliot was growing to hate that phrase. He worried exactly as much as he should, considering who his boss was, who Eliot was._

_Moreau raised the privacy screen between the two of them and the driver and Eliot raised an eyebrow. Perhaps Moreau had a job for him, but he could have told him at dinner, or when they got back to Moreau’s villa._

_“Come back to mine tonight,” Moreau said. It was an order, but it also held an air of offering._

_For Eliot, it was half-nonsense. He always went back to Moreau’s because he lived there. He kept a spartan bedroom in Moreau’s villa. When the man travelled, Eliot always stayed in the next room over, reassured by the connecting doors. He raised his eyebrow and waited._

_“Have a drink with me,” Moreau continued._

_Eliot would point out that he already had a drink with Moreau--several, actually--but denying his boss had never gotten anyone, least of all him, anywhere. So he agreed._

_The driver dropped them at the front door and Eliot relaxed once they were inside and security was in place. Moreau led the way to his private sitting room, a room Eliot had been in multiple times before, but no one entered without an invitation._

_Moreau poured scotch that cost more that Eliot cared to know about. He drank it gratefully, if a tad bit unrefined. Then he waited for what Moreau really called him in there for._

_Damien Moreau did not have friends, although sometimes Eliot thought that he himself was as close as the man got. But he did not have friends, and no drink with him was simply a casual affair without further strings attached._

_Moreau sat back and drank contemplatively. “Do you like your suit?” he suddenly asked._

_Eliot looked down at it. It was new, he remembered then. It was a deep grey, cut like it was tailor-made for him, and with a matching tie Eliot was almost sure was real silk. A gift, left in his room when he made it home one night. His only qualifications for liking clothes were ease of movement and ability to conceal weapons, so he shrugged. “It’s fine,” he said._

_“Just fine?” Moreau tutted. “That’s a three thousand dollar suit.”_

_Eliot shifted slightly at that. He didn’t think everything he wore growing up put together cost three grand. Still, Moreau had deep pockets, and if he wanted to enforce a uniform for his employee, than he could foot the bill._

_“Ya know I don’t know much about this stuff,” he said instead._

_Moreau waved that away. “I can teach you. Or, it doesn’t matter anyways. No one cares if a man knows about the suit, as long as he looks good wearing them. You can leave the rest to me.”_

_Eliot drained the rest of his scotch. “Do you dress up all your employees?” he asked._

_Moreau shook his head. “Only the ones worth looking at,” he drawled._

_Eliot was not unused to Moreau’s proclivities. He had stood guard at the occasional dinner, escorted an occasional tryste out of the house the morning after. He had called prostitutes, both male and female, for the man. He himself had always believed in getting pleasures where he could find them, and wondered then if he was what Moreau had found for the night._

_“Am I your eye-candy, then?” Eliot asked._

_Moreau grinned then, the slow spread of a smile re-shaping his face, and Eliot only realized then that that particular smile appeared in other contexts than a particularly well-plotted murder._

_“My friend,” he said. “You could be so much more than that.”_

 

            Eliot gets back from his run and showers quickly, changing once more. He grabs an apple to snack on and grabs a laptop, intent on checking his email. It’s not an activity he partakes in very often--no one who really needs to reach him would ever use email--but he hopes it’s an activity that looks like it takes enough of his concentration that Hardison and Parker will leave him alone and not ask about what happened that morning.

            He pointedly doesn’t think about how he could, theoretically, just go to his apartment instead. This is their office. It doesn’t matter that they don’t have any clients right then. This is their office, not just technically the bottom floor of Parker and Hardison’s apartment. And it’s the middle of the average workday, which means he has every reason to be here.

            He has a couple different emails for a couple different identities, and most of them are filled with spam that he deletes, only half paying attention. But one notice catches his eye.

            “Damn,” he mutters. He almost forgot about his storage locker, down in LA. He’d had storage lockers all over the world, but when the team had really become a team, it had just made sense to move some things things to LA. Scores that he kept, which were few and far between anyways, were kept secure in foreign countries far away from Eliot himself. But a few personal items had seemed relevant to keep and consolidate, so Eliot had rented the locker. The locker was paid in cash, rented under a nearly clean ID, and Eliot paid out six years at the time of rental, probably all the cash he had on him at the time.

            He could go down and pay for another six years--or ten, or fifteen, for all it mattered. He supposes he could also deal with asking Hardison for a clean credit card and giving it to the man over the phone, saving himself the trip.

            Or…Portland seems to be his home, now. The pub is here, the office is here. Parker and Hardison are here. And he’s sure there are storage lockers in Portland, he just has to find them.

            And road trip down to LA, load his truck, and come back with all his stuff. It will take him a full day of driving, just about, but then he’ll have his stuff close by.

            It’s ridiculous. He hasn’t looked at that stuff in years. It’s mementos, mainly, everything mostly worthless that had somehow still been worth saving. He’d known the storage locker was there the same way he knew his parents house was still there, or the apartment he rented in Lebanon for six months was still there. Just a fact, but not something he needed to actively pursue.

            Still, it’s not like they have any cases on the horizon, and it will only take a few days, anyway. He could be back quickly, if they needed him.

            “Parker, Hardison!” he calls. Telling them he’s going just feels natural now, although even only a few years ago he would have just left a note, if he left anything at all.

            They both make it down to where he is, Parker draping herself over the other side of the couch, Hardison sitting in the chair opposite.

            He clears his throat. The attention feels almost like too much. Maybe he should have just left a note. “Goin’ out of town for a few days,” he says. He sees the way they look at each other and heads it off before their minds head any further down the wrong path. “Not…not like that. Not a job. Just somethin’ I haveta take care of.”

            “Like, terrorists somethin’ you gotta take care of, or some girl has your number an’ you’re  gonna hit her up, gotta take care of?” Hardison asks.

            Eliot shrugs. “Just…personal stuff. I have a storage locker that’s rental expired. Gonna clean it out an’ move it all closer.”

            Parker looks interested in that. “Any good scores?” she asks.

            Eliot can’t help but smile a bit. “Not that type of storage locker,” he says. “This one is just personal stuff. Worthless.”

            Her eyes dim for a moment, before brightening again. “An Eliot treasure hunt!” she grins.

            Eliot groans. “Just gonna move some old stuff,” he says. “Lettin’ you know. I have my cell; call me if somethin’ comes up.”

            He leaves then. He needs to pack a bag and get ready for the trip, make some sandwiches or something for the road.

            When he finally finishes in his apartment, bag slung over one shoulder and cooler in the opposite hand, he makes it out to his truck only to find it already occupied.

            “Out,” he growls. Of course, neither of them move.

            “We’re road tripping,” Parker says, and she looks sideways at Hardison the way she does when she wants to make sure she’s using a word right. He nods at her, so she turns back to Eliot. “It’ll be more fun, all of us.”

            “It’s not supposed to be fun, I’m just gettin’ my damn stuff,” Eliot says, but he knows there’s no getting them out of his truck, not if they’ve really set their minds to coming. He sighs. “Fine. One of you on the drop seat, in the back. I’m drivin’. Don’t touch the radio.”

            They both agree and shuffle around, Hardison in the front and Parker monkeying her way into the back. Eliot sets the cooler back there, knowing all the sandwiches will probably be gone before he even goes to eat one. He sighs. What’s the point of having practically limitless money if he never eats take-out, he supposes.

            The first hour or so is quiet. Hardison is playing with his phone, Parker is distracting herself by counting something or other out the window. She breaks the silence first. “What’s in your storage locker?” she asks.

            Eliot shrugs. “Stuff,” he says. “Just old stuff. Stuff I don’t wanna get rid of.”

            “Like Bunny?” Parker asks.

            Eliot knows full well what Bunny is, the only decent remnant of Parker’s childhood. He also remembers having something like that, once. His was a dog, though. And he stopped needing it before he turned ten. He doesn’t have it. Maybe it’s in his parents house somewhere. Maybe it got thrown out.

            “Nah, not like Bunny,” he says as easily as he can. “Just…stuff. Stuff piles up. Old clothes, furniture. Tools. Just stuff.”

            Parker still seems a little too interested, like she expects he’ll say “a pile of diamonds” if she presses hard enough. He turns on the radio to forestall any more discussion, but that of course sets Hardison off.

            “Man, we gotta listen to this crap?” he asks, looking up from his phone.

            Eliot barely restrains a growl. “I happen to like this crap,” he says. “My car, my rules. You two wanted to tag along. God knows why.”

            “Because we like you,” Parker pops up from the back. “And Hardison says people who like each other are supposed to spend time together.”

            Eliot rolls his eyes. “I spend all my damn time with you two,” he grouses. He pretends not to feel anything when she says because we like you. She doesn’t mean it like he may possibly mean it, and it doesn’t matter anyways. He’s their friend, and their hitter, and it’s nice that they want to spend time with him, even if they can be annoying as all hell sometimes.

            “Not really,” Parker responds. “You come to the office and you sleep in your room, but…you keep running away. Like this morning. Doing Eliot things. Not Eliot and us things.”

            Eliot rolls his eyes again and firmly tries not to think about her calling it his room. He supposes “guest bedroom” seems a bit stupid to her, because the only guest they would ever have in their place is Eliot, so she must have just simplified things.

            “Tell ya what,” he says. “Whenever I recover from eighteen hours in a car with you two, we can get together an’ do whatever you want.”

            “Cookies?” Parker asks.

            Eliot wonders if what his mama said about eye-rolling is true, if doing it so much means his face will get stuck this way. Parker asks for cookies all the damn time now. He used to insist that cooking and baking are separate, not the same thing, just because he did one didn’t mean he did the other. He’s since given up, and now knows ten different cookie recipes off the top of his head.

            “If ya want cookies, I’ll make cookies,” he says. “After this trip.”

            Hardison looks up from his phone. “Take the next exit, goin’ ‘roun’ll save us half an hour on traffic.”

            Eliot’s long ago learned to listen. If Hardison says there’s traffic, then there’s traffic. He flips on his directional, merges over, and exits.

            It’s quiet again for a little while, until Parker’s stomach rumbles. She insists she won’t eat another sandwich--Eliot wishes he could be frustrated with her for helping herself to his food in the first place, and he plays the part well, but honestly it’s mostly just endearing--so Eliot has to find her fast food. Fried chicken, she decides, which means Hardison uses his phone to locate the nearest KFC and Eliot drives around until they find the little restaurant in the middle of nowhere.

            It’s as good a time to break as any, so they go in and use the bathroom and order a truly stunning amount of food that somehow Eliot ends up footing the bill for.

            Parker eats more than she should be able to fit in that little body, and Hardison apparently can devour fried chicken. Eliot eats his share, and then Parker is getting up and coming back with some sort of chocolate cake.

            Finally, they hit the road again--a stop that would have taken Eliot ten minutes on his own taking the three of them almost an hour--but, by then, it’s starting to get dark. “Where you wanna stop for the night, man?” Hardison asks, nose buried in his phone once more.

            Eliot raises an eyebrow. “Stop? Man, I’m drivin’ straight through. You can sleep there, if ya want.”

            “Nu-uh,” Hardison says. “Ya think that’s good for me? I’m six two, man. Wake up with a bad back an’ cramped legs. We’re gettin’ a room.”

            Eliot gnashes his teeth, but he doesn’t have it in him to listen to Hardison complain about his back after sleeping in the car, so he shrugs. “Whatever. We’ll stop ‘round nine.”

            That seems to be enough for Hardison, who goes back to his phone. Parker pipes up with her own opinion from the back, however. “One room.”

            “What? Parker, no--” Eliot begins.

            “I’ve never had a slumber party before,” she says. Then, after a moment, “can I braid your hair? That’s what you do at slumber parties, right?”

            Eliot inhales, holds, then exhales, releasing tension. He can deny them nothing that doesn’t directly relate to their personal safety, even if it’s hard for him, even if it’s weird. “We’ll talk ‘bout the hair braiding,” he says, thinking of how torturous this night, with them just one bed over, is going to be.

 

_Sleeping with the boss was never a good way to make friends. It took them all a while to find out what was going on between Eliot and Moreau, but when they did, things got ugly. Eliot debated between beating those who commented senseless and just taking it. Eventually, he worked out something in the middle._

_He ignored the comments, at least when they were made. Later, those who said anything would find themselves being reassigned, finding worse and worse jobs for themselves. Eliot was Moreau’s chosen one before all of this, and he remained so. Nothing changed at work._

_Nothing changed. Eliot still killed people sometimes, still led every operation for Moreau, still was responsible for Moreau’s security. He would come home and go through his usual routine--although the expensive suits seemed to have multiplied, like Moreau now felt himself entitled to dress Eliot up, which, Eliot supposed, he was--and accompany the man to dinner._

_Unless it was a business meeting, they would eat together. Moreau would chastise him for worrying and try to ply him with alcohol and perhaps grab his thigh under the table. Eliot kept his composure, always. Out in the world, he was simply Moreau’s personal security._

_Things would change back at the villa, when the doors were locked and Eliot was at least somewhat off duty._

_They would have a drink, build the tension, but they always, inevitably, ended up in the same place._

_It was Moreau’s bed, usually, although occasionally it would be the couch or the desk or the wall. But it would always end with Moreau panting against Eliot’s skin, voice as demanding as his roaming fingers, hungry thrusts, breathing against Eliot’s skin, “you’re mine, aren’t you, Eliot? Mine?”_

_And every time, Eliot would answer with an unequivocal yes. He knew no other answer._

 

            The hotel they end up stopping at is a Hilton property, and Eliot sneers at it. It figures that the two of them would manage to turn his quick, two-day trip to LA into some big, expensive song-and-dance.

            Hardison checks them in and Parker snatches at least four cookies that Eliot sees from the little display. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that they’re free. She seems to figure it out on her own, though, and sets to raiding the little store, because when they make it to their room, she has three orange sodas for Hardison, six bottles of water,  a whole pile of candy, some microwave popcorn, and two separate cartons of Ben and Jerrys in her overnight bag.

            She shrugs when she sees Eliot watching her. “They overcharge for them,” she says. It’s true enough, but Parker also stole free cookies, so Eliot knows price has very little to do with it. Still, he takes a water and cracks the seal open, settling on the bed closest to the door.

            Parker disappears to take a shower, and Hardison pulls out a laptop. “Wanna watch a movie?” he asks. “Hotel pay-per-view is easy to hack, like stealin’ candy from a baby, anythin’ you want, man…”

            Eliot waves him down. “‘M good,” he says. “Just gonna rest a bit.”

            Hardison looks at him sideways, likely knowing as well as Eliot just how likely actual rest is, but he doesn’t say anything. “Sure, whatever, man,” he says.

            Parker comes out of the bathroom wearing shorts and what Eliot immediately realizes is his shirt. “Parker,” he growls. “Where’d you get that?”

            He shouldn’t enjoy seeing her in his clothes, especially knowing that she stole it, going through his things to get it. He shouldn’t enjoy it anyways, he reminds himself, because she shouldn’t be wearing his clothes.

            She shrugs. “Your bag,” she says. “It looked comfy.”

            It is. It’s well-worn, soft from too many washings. And his.

            He looks over at Hardison, who shrugs. “Man, I dunno. Just a shirt. You want the shower next, or should I?” he asks.

            Eliot growls and swings his legs off the bed, digging through his bag for clean sweats and a t-shirt before going into the bathroom and closing the door.

            He strips down and turns the water on, and tries not to listen to the two of them moving around outside. It doesn’t work. He’s senses are sharp anyways, but he’s exceptionally tuned into the two of them.

            He showers quickly, just washing off the sweat of the drive, then dresses again and goes out into the room, towel-drying his hair as he walks.

            He throws his towel under the sink and Hardison snickers. “Man,  how you get that pretty hair everyday if it looks like this now?” he asks, getting out of bed.

            Eliot scowls and turns to the mirror, finger-combing his hair into some semblance of ordered. Hardison walks around behind him, still snickering. “Nice, man,” he says, before shutting the bathroom door.

            Eliot scowls at the door and then goes back to his bed, throwing his dirty clothes into his bag.

            He lies back, closes his eyes, and deliberately focuses on relaxing his body. He doubts he’ll sleep that night--not with them mere feet away--but releasing some tension won’t hurt.

            “So,” Parker says, much closer to his bed than he originally thought she was, but he manages to control his startle reflex. “Can I braid your hair?”

            “No,” he snaps. Then he takes a deep breath, and tries again. “It’s wet. You braid it now, it’ll dry funny. Gotta let it dry.”

            That seems to be good enough for her. “I stole some microwave popcorn,” she says. “We could watch a movie?”

            Eliot takes a deep breath. “Ask Hardison when he gets out.”

            “Do you not want us here?” she asks, voice small suddenly.

            He hates it when she has moments of unwavering, completely focused perception. No, he doesn’t hate it. It’s part of her, that sometimes she sees things, lasers in on them, and talks about them, whether other people would or not. But it can be damn inconvenient sometimes.

            He takes another deep breath, hoping to expel all tension so she won’t have to hear any of it. “No, Parker. I’m...it’s nice, havin’ you two along. Just not used to it.”

            She frowns. “But we’re together all the time. You said so earlier.”

            He shakes his head. “Not the same, Parker.”

            “Why not?” she asks.

            “That’s work.”

            “You sleep at our place,” she points out. He can’t deny that, but he hates hearing it, so accusing, the simple, bold statement of him over-inserting himself in their lives.

            “I sleep in the guest room,” he says.

            “Your room,” she immediately corrects. Then she says, “is that the problem? You want your own room?”

            He does, actually. He doesn’t want to be intruding, he doesn’t want to think they’re not doing whatever it is they usually do because he’s in their space. Perhaps worse, he doesn’t want to have to witness the little things, whatever those are, kisses or touches or whatever,  between them. But Parker wanted this tonight for whatever reason, and he won’t tell her no. “This is fine,” he says. Then, deciding he’s done enough damage, “why don’t you pick out a movie? We can watch it when Hardison gets out.”

            She smiles and flicks through the pay-per-view, looking for something suitable.

            Hardison comes out wearing just a pair of boxers and Eliot looks away. This is why he needs his own room. Hardison in boxers, Parker in what must be another pair of Hardison’s boxers and his own shirt--it’s too much.

            Parker hands him the remote and Hardison presses a series of buttons until the movie pops up, presumably as no charge.

            It’s a zombie movie. They’re into these for some reason.

            Parker grins. “Never seen this one before,” she announces, then turns sideway. “Have you, Eliot?”

            He shakes his head and watches the screen with half his attention. The other half he keeps mostly on them, watching Hardison fall asleep in Parker’s arms, his head pillowed on her stomach, his fingers tightening in her--Eliot’s--t-shirt.

            He’s never going to be able to wear that shirt again, not when he’ll associate it with the two of them, like this, forevermore. If Parker still likes it in the morning, he should just let her keep it.

            Eventually, she falls asleep too, head tilted back, still sitting up. Eliot debates moving them but decides against it. They’d be too easy to wake by accident. Instead, he quietly moves across the room, shutting the movie, then the light. He triple-checks the door chain and the deadbolt, the creeps back to his bed.

            He doesn’t sleep. He does his best not to watch them, either, but, when the sun breaks the horizon and starts coloring the gap underneath the curtains, he’s not sure how well he succeeded.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include the section that deals specifically with murder, including child murder. It's not incredibly graphic, but it's not entirely glossed over, either. Be aware it's in here.

          _Eliot came home with two bullets still buried in his shoulder. He meant to go to his own bathroom, where he kept everything he needed to dig them out, but Damien intercepted him._

_He frowned. “You’re hurt.”_

_Eliot resisted shrugging, which seemed like it would just aggravate his situation. “Nothin’ I can’t handle.”_

_“I’m sure,” Damien said, but he was still frowning. “I’ll have a doctor look at that.”_

_“I can handle it,” Eliot repeated._

_Damien just levelled that look at him, and Eliot acquiesced, nodding and following Damien to Damien’s own bathroom._

_The doctor took thirty minutes to get there, an impossibly quick time for anyone but Damien Moreau, but by the end of it Damien looked ready to pop a blood vessel. People simply didn’t make him wait._

_“It’s fine,” Eliot assured him._

_“It’s two bullets in your shoulder,” Damien snapped. It sounded ridiculous. It was far from the first time Eliot had been shot, and he had seen Damien naked. Before Damien Moreau was the Damien Moreau of today, he had taken a bullet or two himself._

_The doctor showed up. Eliot turned down the offer of drugs and gritted his teeth while the man extracted the two slugs, cleaned the wounds, and sewed them back up. Damien stayed the entire time, watching._

_He took the doctor aside while Eliot was cleaning up and Eliot was sure money changed hands, which was a little ridiculous, he felt, for something he could easily do himself. But Damien had money and, if he wanted to throw it around, Eliot wasn’t going to be successful in stopping him._

_Eliot didn’t bother putting a shirt back on, just cleaned up the last of the blood and put everything away. Damien made it back over to him, sans doctor, and put a hand on his uninjured shoulder._

_“Job’s done, by the way,” Eliot grunted._

_Damien nodded. “Of that, I had no doubt,” he said, squeezing gently. “You never disappoint me, Eliot.”_

_Those words coming out of Damien’s mouth should have sounded laden with underlying threat. They would have, if it was any other situation but the two of them, in Damien’s bathroom, Eliot with his shirt off, Damien touching him so intimately, knowingly. As it was, they sounded warm, grateful. Eliot swallowed._

_“Come rest,” Damien said. “You’ve had a long day.”_

_Eliot almost laughed. That wasn’t even the half of it. He hadn’t slept in two days, he’d killed five people, he’d taken two bullets. Instead, he followed Damien out of the bathroom and into the bedroom._

_“I might bleed on your sheets,” he warned._

_Damien waved it away. “Sheets can be replaced,” he said. “Do you need help with your pants?”_

_Letting Damien touch his pants--even the pants he had bought--in a seemingly non-sexual context seemed too much. Eliot shook his head and took them off himself, kicking off his boots and then stepping out of his pants, leaving himself in just underwear._

_Damien picked up behind him, folding the expensive pants and setting the boots under a chair. “I do wish you would wear the shoes I bought you,” he said._

_“They wouldn’t look so good with blood,” Eliot said, walking towards the bed._

_“I suppose not,” he acknowledged, putting the pants aside. “Well, get into bed, let’s go. I’m not waiting all day.”_

_Eliot obeyed, getting onto the bed, sliding under the blankets. Damien walked over to stand beside him, fussing with the blankets for a moment. A frown creased his smooth face. Seeing him frown wasn’t unusual, but that look was different. Eliot tried to concentrate, tried to analyze it, but then Damien’s hand swept a few errant strands of hair from his eyes, and Eliot felt like his brain shut off._

_“I have work to do in my office,” he said quietly. “I’ll be just down the hall. Get some rest. I will be back in a little while.”_

_He didn’t kiss Eliot or anything so sentimental, but the hand that lingered on Eliot’s forehead for a moment before Damien left felt jarring nonetheless. Eliot watched him go and thought that this wasn’t what he signed up for. But the door closed, and he didn’t move, instead staying exactly where Damien had put him. Plans could change. He could adapt. This seemed to be going somewhere...interesting._

 

            When the others wake up, they get dressed and pack up the room before making their way down to the buffet downstairs. Parker piles a plate precariously high with food, and Hardison grabs enough bacon to give a man a heart attack. Eliot sticks to eggs and sausage.

            Parker goes back for seconds and Eliot carefully modulates his features to not show any sort of shock. He knows she’s active, knows doing the stuff she does takes energy, but, even so, he can’t figure out where the girl puts it all.

            Finally, they hit the road. He could have probably been there by now, but they still have six hours of driving to go, five if he really pushes it and they don’t hit too much traffic outside of LA, but that’s like asking for a miracle, and not one they can fake.

            “Man, can I please fix your damn radio?” Hardison asks, leaning towards it.

            Eliot blocks him from touching it. “What’s wrong with it?” he demands.

            “This is the fifth song ‘bout some guy cryin’ ‘cause his girl left him, so now he’s gonna get drunk or whatever,” Hardison says. “We could go for a little variety, ya get me?”

            “Leave it,” Eliot growls. Ten minutes later, he changes the station, subtly watching Hardison out of the corner of his eye until the man looks happy.

            They hit traffic a few times, but the drive is mostly uneventful for the next few hours. If uneventful counts as Parker pulling out smuggled food from god knows where and throwing popcorn at Hardison, but at this point, it really does.

            LA has them tangled up on the freeway for hours, and then Eliot has to re-trace the route back to the storage locker facility by memory. He gets twisted up a few times, but, finally, he makes it.

            732 is in the back of the lot, so he drives right up to it, unlocks the gate, and throws the door open. He can feel the other two hovering behind him, Parker standing on her tip-toes to get a better view, and he knows she’s disappointed.

            There’s a couch in the corner he’s not sure why he saved, considering how threadbare and stained it is. There are various weapons tucked away in boxes. He mentally runs through what should be there. Knives of various types, a few swords, rattan sticks, all tucked away safely. Boxes of more literal tools, hammers and wrenches that he’s long since replaced. Boxes of cookware, old pots and pans that he’s replaced and upgraded since. A few boxes that contain books, more that contain clothes.

            There’s a hand-made wooden end table he made by himself when laid up with a broken leg once and, next to it, the final box.

            This is the box he came all this way for, why he couldn’t just burn the place and let his things be sold at auction or destroyed. This is the box everything important is in. His dog tags, drawings his sister sent him from his nephew in their once-a-year communication, a stack of letters he got from school kids when he was still a soldier. Letters he and Aimee had written, when they had tried. Pictures, of his mom and his dad and his sister, of her family, of him right before basic, of his unit, of Aimee and Willie, of him and Toby in a Paris restaurant, things he should have burnt long ago but just couldn’t bring himself to bring the match to.

            Then there’s the bracelet, simultaneously the most and least damning item in the whole box. No one could place him from that simple, elegant piece of leather. But he knows what it means.

            “All good?” Hardison asks from behind him.

            Eliot nods, looking around again. “We’ll leave that damn couch,” he says. “Can’t believe I kept it. Everything else goes in the back. No digging, Parker,” he adds, although he knows stopping her is all but hopeless.

            It doesn’t take them long to pile in the dozen boxes and the end table. Eliot drags the couch out and sets it outside, hoping someone will get the hint and take it or trash it. He really doesn’t care.

            “Gotta dump the key,” he says, so they all load in and he drives them up to the front office.

            The transaction is swift and bland. Eliot looks for cameras, just in case, out of habit more than anything at this point, really, but he’s not worried. The one camera is a dummy and, even if it wasn’t, he’s now burnt the last of his connections to LA.

            He gets back in the car and takes a deep breath. Most of this stuff he should just throw away, or at least find a good cause to donate it to. He’s sure a shelter somewhere could use some cookware, books, tools, and clothes. The weapons are a little more complicated. He can’t have those falling into the wrong hands. The end table might even look nice in his apartment--he tries not to think that it would actually fit perfectly in the spare room at Parker and Hardison’s place. And the last box--

            Maybe he should burn it after all. Maybe if he doesn’t open it, maybe with all the years that have passed, maybe he can light the match and throw it down, let all of that melt away.

            He takes a shaky breath. Not with the others watching. That’s too many questions.

            “You wanna get a place to spend the night?” he asks.

 

_Damien Moreau did not go on vacations. Vacations were rather unseemly for a man in his position._

_Sometimes, however, he would conduct business over the phone from remote, beautiful locations. And his head of personal security would always travel with him._

_It was just the two of them, beside the private chef, two maids, and a gardener. It was a private house with a private beach, isolated, remote, and beautiful. For once, they truly were alone, and even Eliot felt he could relax just a tiny bit._

_Eliot was reading on the veranda, Damien taking a phone call just inside, the door open and Eliot listening with half an ear even as he continued to read. It was beautiful out, with crystal skies and water, a warm breeze, sweet-smelling flowers perfuming the air._

_The phone was set down, and footsteps approached the door. Damien walked out and wrapped an arm around Eliot, leaning down so he could speak directly into his ear._

_“That was my last call for the day,” he said._

_Eliot looked at the sun. “It’s not even noon.”_

_“Indeed. Shall we have some fun?” he asked._

_Eliot set aside his book and stood, letting Damien move him toward the bedroom. But when they got there, it wasn’t what he expected. Instead of a quick move to the bed, Damien looked him over while moving towards the drawers on the opposite side of the room. “Come change, Eliot.”_

_Eliot did as he was told. It only took them a minute to get changed into bathing suits and t-shirts. Damien slid on sandals, Eliot opted to go barefoot._

_“Lunch should be waiting for us,” he said before leaving the room, Eliot on his heels._

_Sure enough, it was, and they took it down to the sand. Eliot pretended the scorching hot sand wasn’t rough on his bare feet and he got the feeling Damien was watching him with some sort of amusement, although he didn’t say anything. They ended up sitting on a blanket Eliot spread beneath the big umbrella permanently hammered into the sand, halfway between the house and the water, just close enough to catch the strong scents off the seabreeze. There was a beer for Eliot and a bottle of wine for Damien in the basket, sandwiches for the both of them and a pile of fresh-cut fruit for them to share._

_Eliot tried not to find it strange when Damien held out a strawberry for Eliot to eat from his fingers. He did it, like he did everything else for the man, but it felt about as strange as having a picnic lunch on a deserted beach together did. It was juicy and sweet, and Eliot chased a drop of juice down Damien’s fingers, earning himself a satisfied smile in response, and that too was…weird, too much, almost, although Eliot couldn’t deny the way that smile made him feel inside. Like he was lighter than air, like he was something special. He would have done most anything, even this, to have made it keep coming._

_When lunch was over, Damien pulled a bottle of sunblock from the basket. “Shirt off,” he commanded._

_Eliot wanted to protest that he didn’t burn much, but the tropical sun was brutal, so he took his shirt off and let Damien have at him. He would have said he could do his own face, and arms, and legs, and chest, but Damien continued rubbing in sunblock with a look of concentration, and, when he was done, it was all Eliot could do to return the favor._

_Moreau slept in the sun for a while, and Eliot watched a combination of the waves and him. When Damien woke up, they walked along the water’s edge, the surf pooling around their ankles._

_As the sun began to set, illuminating the beach and the water a brilliant orange, they went back up to the house for dinner. It was already set out for them on the patio, plates of chicken and a wild rice, mixed vegetables, wine for Damien, beer for Eliot. The torches around the patio were lit, giving the whole place a soft glow._

_This was nothing like dinners in Italian restaurants, where he could feasibly pretend to be just security, the boss’ dirty little secret. This was seduction, this was a date, this was everything Eliot had no idea how to deal with._

_But he didn’t bolt. There was nowhere to go, but even if he could have faded away in an instant, even if he could make it all go away, he didn’t want to. He didn’t know what he was doing, it made his stomach knot up, it made him uncomfortable in a thousand different ways, but that had never stopped him before. Like with everything else, he would learn._

_Damien gestured to the seat with the beer in front of it and Eliot sat down, Damien sliding into the chair opposite him._

_“This is...nice,” Eliot offered. It was more than he would usually give, but if felt expected, like there was a part of the conversation it was his duty to offer._

_Damien’s lips flickered up in to that friendly smile everyone but Eliot rarely, if ever, saw. “It is,” he agreed. “We should get away more often. I’m sure things can run themselves for a few days, here and there.”_

_Eliot was less sure, but he didn’t dissuage Damien of what he knew were idle fantasies. Instead, he ate his food quietly._

_Once they were both done, plates pushed towards the center of the table, Damien smiled. “Dessert?” he asked._

_Eliot waved the offer away. “Not now,” he said._

_Damien nodded. “Right, then. Later. For now, I have something for you,” he said, pulling a small box off of the empty chair next to him._

_Eliot’s throat felt constricted. The dinner, the candlelight, the vacation, the beach, it was already all too much. This was just one more straw, one more piece in too much, in changing everything._

_Not that this was the first time Damien gave him a gift, of course. Damien bought him enough clothes to fill multiple closets, expensive foods and drinks, every weapon Eliot could even dream of, books he saw Eliot grow curious over. He’d bought him some more racy gifts as well, of course. But all of those had been presented casually, often merely left for Eliot to find. None came in a box to be presented over an almost romantic dinner._

_Damien opened the box. Inside was a bracelet, a simple leather cuff. Eliot examined it closely, but it was simply a dark piece of leather, made to close with highly varnished snaps on the ends. He had no doubt it would fit his wrist perfectly._

_He looks up in askance, and Damien merely shrugged. “I saw it, and thought of you,” he said. Eliot had a feeling there was far more to it than that, but he didn’t press. “If you like it, then it’s yours.”_

_Eliot wasn’t sure he did like it, what it meant, what this all meant. But no one turned down Damien Moreau. He thought, maybe, in this instance, he could and get away with it. But he didn’t try. He reached out for the piece. Damien moved faster, taking Eliot’s wrist in one hand. Eliot relaxed into his grip as Damien fastened the cuff around it._

_“There,” he said, seemingly satisfied. “I was right. It was made for you, my friend.” Eliot thought that expression could have been, in that instance, far more literal than it would typically be intended to be._

_“Thank you,” he said, looking at the leather molded exactly to his wrist._

_“You’re quite welcome,” Damien said, smiling again. “Shall we take another walk, before dessert?”_

 

            They find another Hilton a little ways outside of LA and they all agree to stay there. Parker’s eyes light up as she observes their collection of evidently worthwhile snacks, and Hardison checks them in while Eliot awkwardly watches the truck. Once they have room keys, Eliot pulls around so he can park near the door closest to their room.

            They end up carrying all the boxes inside, making three total trips to get everything in. It seems ridiculous to have a hotel room full of boxes, but Eliot can’t just leave them in the truck. Someone might steal them.

            He doesn’t even protest the one room this time, just accepts it. He does wonder if this is going to become a thing, if they’re suddenly going to be crammed in one room together when they travel for work. He hopes not. He doesn’t know if he could take it.

            Parker spills out food and chooses a container of ice cream. “Is it like an Eliot treasure hunt?” she asks. “Dig through and find the pieces of Eliot?”

            Eliot sighs and shakes his head. “Leave my stuff alone, Parker.” He says it a little sharper than he intended, and she seems to wilt. He feels immediately bad. Not that he’s thinking of retracting his words--it’s his stuff, and she shouldn’t be going through it, particularly not with what’s contained in some of those boxes. But still--anyone who makes Parker look like that deserves a punch to the face, even if it’s him.

            He’s saved the trouble when she perks up again. “Can I braid your hair?” she asks. “It’s dry now.”

            He doesn’t want her braiding his hair but he wants it marginally more than he wants her digging through his things, so he nods, and then watches Hardison hold back his laughter. Smart man.

            He moves on the bed so he’s sitting in the middle, and she comes over and kneels behind him. She takes a few strands of his hair and begins to braid it, fingers moving as quickly here as they do in everything else. It feels nice, to have someone else’s hands in his hair, not that he plans to admit that to anyone.

            Hardison puts on a movie and Eliot watches a bit without turning his head, making sure not to upset Parker’s work. It’s an action movie that Eliot doesn’t recognize, but that’s not really surprising. He makes fun of some of the scenes, but mostly, they stay quiet.

            There’s no more of Eliot’s hair left to braid, so Parker pets his shoulder a few times and then goes back to her own bed, snuggling up next to Hardison.

            Eliot’s attention is off the TV. He wishes he could say he’s capable of ignoring them, of keeping to his own business and leaving them in peace. But he’s not. Parker has her ear on Hardison’s chest, clearly listening to his heartbeat, and Eliot can’t look away, his breath caught in his throat.

            Eventually, Hardison leans down to kiss the top of her head, murmurs quietly about needing the bathroom, and gets up, grabbing a change of clothes before going into the bathroom. Eliot pretends he hasn’t been watching, and he just hopes he fools them.

            Parker changes next. Eliot doesn’t bother, just stares resolutely at the ceiling, not looking at the stack of boxes, not looking at the two people getting comfortable in bed together.

            Their breathing evens out and Eliot looks over. Parker is half on top of Hardison, her hair fanned out over his chest. He has an arm around her. It makes Eliot’s throat ache, so he turns away again.

            He sleeps a bit, but not much. Trying not to think about things is a good way to make sure they can’t leave your brain, and Eliot finds himself caught between two mental intruders: the couple next to him, the box on the other side.

_Damien asked him one night over drinks in his sitting room. “Move in with me,” he said._

_Like everything that came out of Damien’s mouth, it was a command. But it was also one, Eliot got the feeling, that Damien felt the slightest bit of hesitation about._

_He didn’t know what to say. “I already live here,” he reminded him._

_Damien waved that away. “Here. With me. Not that little room you call an apartment and spend so little time in anyways. My rooms. Our rooms.”_

_Eliot didn’t know what to say even after the clarification. None of this relationship was what he expected, that first night where Damien offered him a drink. He expected to be the boss’ dirty little secret. He expected some good sex. He didn’t expect...any of what Damien had made this into. A relationship. A romance, almost._

_He still couldn’t say he hated it._

_So he shrugged. “If you want,” he said. “I’m here most nights anyway, right?”_

_“Right,” Damien said, smiling. “I’ll have your things moved tomorrow. Would you like another drink?”_

_Eliot declined, and Damien nodded, setting his own glass aside. “Would you like to move to the bedroom?”_

_That, Eliot agreed to. That, he understood, that he knew, that, he was on even footing about._

_Things were slow that night, gentle, almost tender. Damien’s lips and hands never left Eliot’s skin, and sex should not be unsettling, sex and killing and protecting were the three most familiar acts Eliot knew, and how dare Damien Moreau take one of those and twist even it for him._

_What he’d felt for Amie had been an aberration, and when she had married someone else, someone better suited for her, someone safer, it had almost been a relief. After that, Eliot didn’t have to feel those things anymore, and, in his line of work, he was better off without it._

_He wanted to curse Damien for proving that those feelings were not just a one-off, that they could come back again, different but undeniably present, insistent, annoying._

_Afterward, Damien let Eliot hold him, Eliot’s arms wrapped around him, Damien tracing the leather band Eliot never removed. It made Eliot shiver._

_Damien fell asleep like that, but Eliot was up for hours yet, lying in bed, holding Damien in his arms, thinking. He thought of his job and how far things had moved away from what he came in to do. How this was never part of the plan. He thought of how Damien had somehow, again, managed to ruin him, give him back these feelings he was sure he left behind, had hoped he’d left behind._

_He drifted off closer to dawn, thinking hazily that it was already too late. Damien Moreau had already managed to worm his way in._

 

            Parker wakes him up the next morning. She bounces on the foot of his bed, and he’s up in an instant, scrambling under his pillow for a weapon that isn’t there. He comes back to himself quickly. “What the hell?” he snaps.

            She’s grinning. “Time to wake up,” she says. “They’re serving breakfast and then we have to drive back to Portland.”

            Eliot turns his head to the other bed, where Hardison is just starting to sit up, looking as run-over as Eliot feels. “Okay, okay, mama,” he says. “Lemme get a shower.”

            They all take their turn in the shower. Eliot ends up last and rushes through it, lest Parker get impatient and barge in, demanding they get a move on for breakfast. They make it downstairs, him and Parker still with wet hair.

            Breakfast is much the same as yesterday, because chain hotels are absolutely identical, no matter where in the world you find one. Still, fuel is fuel, so Eliot eats his eggs and drinks his coffee, then they go back to their room and lug all the boxes and the end table back out to the truck. Hardison checks them out, and it’s not quite nine-thirty when they’re on the road once more.

            Hardison moans about being up so early and closes his eyes, tilting his head back, although he doesn’t fall back asleep. Parker is focused out the window, and Eliot is left in peace. Or, anyways, as much peace as he can be in, with those two right there.

            They make pretty good time, and have gone a good clip by the time Eliot decides to stop for lunch. It’s only a little sub shop off the highway, but it turns out to be pretty decent. There’s an ancient arcade game in the corner that Hardison’s eyes light up at and, after he eats his sandwich, Eliot and Parker watch him play for a little while.

            “C’mon, geek, let’s hit the road,” Eliot says, figuring forty minutes to play with the toy is enough. If Hardison really likes it, he can find one closer to home. Or, hell, buy one. He certainly has the money.

            So they head back out to the truck and pile back in, and get on the road once more. Hardison and Parker bicker about the details of a job they pulled six months ago and Eliot half-listens but keeps quiet, eyes on the road.

            Finally, the road signs start telling him Portland is close, and something inside him lightens slightly. Not completely--there’s a lot on him--but, nevertheless, he feels lighter.

            It’s good to be home.

 

  _It seemed like a minor conversation, like Damien was asking him to pick up eggs and milk, not slaughter an entire family. He asked in bed one morning. Ordered, more like it, and they had done so well at, somehow, impossibly, keeping their relationship separate from work. Damien had seemed to grasp where those lines were better than Eliot did, smoothly transitioning between boss and lover, until the day he asked Eliot to murder an entire family._

_Everything Damien Moreau ever said was an order, but Eliot had always gotten a feeling that everything to do with their relationship was an order he could ignore if he chose, even if he never tried. But this was different. This was an order from the boss._

_Eliot had nodded mechanically, gotten out of bed and dressed in clothes suited to work and blood and death. He had gathered the men he needed for the job, and he had left. It hadn’t taken that long to get to the house of a government official and his family._

_Eliot had killed a lot of people, and, for the most part, he felt little about it. He knew what some of Moreau’s men did. But this was the first time Moreau had asked for it, specifically, and it was the first time it was left to Eliot to take care of._

_This wasn’t security. This wasn’t even wetwork. This was unimaginable._

_There were seven people in the house. The official, his wife, their four children, and the live-in nanny. The baby of the family was barely toddling around on chubby little legs, her little smile lighting up her face, too young to understand that something was wrong. Eliot closed his eyes when he pulled the trigger, but, even so, he was too good of a marksman to miss._

_He killed them all himself. Quick, clean, efficient shots, ending their lives as easily as possible. Moreau didn’t demand any more. He just demanded that they all die, a message sent as to what happens to those who cross Damien Moreau._

_He did it and left the others to watch. They liked to play with their food. They were all killers like Eliot but no one on Moreau’s payroll was a killer_ like Eliot _. Eliot killed because it was his job. Because he could justify it to himself, most days. He wasn’t a sadist. He didn’t enjoy it, not like these men might have. At least he spared the baby that, and all the other children, ages four to fourteen, the nanny just barely twenty-two, their mother, their father. A perfect little family left as a mess of blood in a once-pristine Italian kitchen, for someone else to find and someone else to clean up._

_He insisted on driving back, gripping the wheel tight enough to hide the slight tremors in his hands._

_When he got back to Damien’s villa, he went and stored his guns. He hated touching them, hated the sight of them. He wanted to throw them away, but they were valuable weapons. Besides, they were tools. They hadn’t done any gross acts that day. He had._

_He threw his clothes away. Possibly the blood splatter made them beyond saving, but Eliot didn’t care one way or the other. He just didn’t want to look at them again._

_Damien came into the bedroom. “There you are. Job done?”_

_Eliot nodded tightly. He wanted to throw up at the casual way it was asked, but not in front of Damien. “It’s done,” he said, tightly._

_He pulled fresh clothes from the closet. He didn’t want to put them on, put anything on, but lying around in his underwear would be an obvious sign of weakness. So he pulled on fresh jeans and a Hanley. Damien looked him over._

_“I have a phone call,” he said. “But, dinner tonight?”_

_Eliot nodded, and Damien left him alone. He deflated as soon as the door closed once more._

_He wanted to lie in bed, but that wouldn’t help anything and would give him away, beside. So, instead, he ended up on the couch in their sitting room, book propped open in his lap and unread, eyes hazily focused on the ceiling._

_He didn’t know how to deal with what happened. He didn’t know if he would be asked to do it again, to kill more children, more innocent families. He was almost sure Damien would ask again, if it worked. Eliot was his go-to on everything. There was no reason Damien would keep him clean of this._

_Bile rose in his throat, but he forcibly kept it back._

_He hadn’t said a single prayer since the last time he’d been at a military service, hadn’t meant one since he was seventeen years old, since the last time he saw his mama, but right then, he prayed. He didn’t pray for himself or for forgiveness, neither of which he deserved. He prayed for the little baby and her family, that God would take them into his embrace and welcome them into heaven. They deserved that much, and more._

_He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but suddenly there was a hand on his face. “You look ill,” Damien said. “Do you want me to call you a doctor?”_

_Eliot shook his head. He didn’t need a doctor. He needed a confessor, maybe, but not a doctor._

_“Nevertheless, I think we’ll stay in tonight,” Damien said. “I’ll have something sent up here for us.”_

_He left to go call down to the kitchen, leaving Eliot alone once more. Eliot started to think again. Maybe next time, he could let someone else do it, step back. But then someone might take their time. That little baby never knew what hit her, never even knew the moment between life and death. With someone else’s hands, that might not have happened. The mother and the oldest daughter and the nanny could have been tortured for days, might have been by anyone else. At least Eliot made it quick._

_Bile rose in his throat again, because there he was, practically praising himself for having the decency to murder them quickly. Eliot had never seen himself as a monster. As a tool, yes. As Moreau’s guard dog, as he’d been called more than once, yes. But he justified what he did, every time. It was always something he could put away, bury somewhere deep and not have to feel again._

_He knew the truth, then. One early-morning order from Damien Moreau, and he crossed whatever lines he had had left. He was a monster._

_Somewhere in his musings, Damien had returned, sitting next to him on the couch, rubbing gently at his back._


	3. Chapter Three

            When they get into Portland, Eliot finds the nearest church and drops the books, clothes, tools, and cooking utensils at the donation bin in the back. He probably should have opened the boxes, checked what kind of condition everything is in, but he figures the church or whoever ends up getting the stuff can sort through it, keep what’s good, toss anything else. They're a better judge of it all than he is, anyways.

            “Man, we drove all the way to LA for you to just donate the stuff?” Hardison demands.

            “He kept some,” Parker says.

            Eliot shrugs and points. “Clothes, books, tools, and kitchen stuff,” he says. “I’ve replaced ‘em all by now. Don’t need ‘em. The rest I’ll keep.”

            “What’s left?” Parker asks.

            Eliot rolls his eyes. He doesn’t understand why she keeps pushing. Maybe she really does think he has some great score, secreted away in old cardboard boxes. Or maybe it’s just her curiosity at this point.

            “Weapons,” he says, pointing to three boxes. “Personal stuff,” he says firmly, pointing to the last box.

            “What kind of personal stuff?” Hardison asks.

            Eliot rolls his eyes again. “The personal kind.”

            “You gotta pile of embarrassing love letters, man?” Hardison asks.

            Eliot controls his flush, or thinks he does, at least, but the truth is there are love letters in there. Not the ones he wrote, thankfully--Aimee has those, or threw them away or burnt them or whatever--but he does have her responses to his letters.

            “Just….stuff from over the years,” he says evasively.

            “Like what?” Parker demands.

            “Letters from my sister,” he offers. It’s the least damning thing in that box, and if it will get them off his back, then he will say it.

            “You keep in contact with your sister?” Hardison asks.

            Eliot shrugs. “She sends me letters sometimes. Once, twice a year. I haven’t seen her in...fifteen years, I guess. Ever since Tommy was born. You don’t let a bad guy around your kids.”

            “You’re not a bad guy, Eliot,” Parker says solemnly.

            He can almost believe that, now. He will always have that stain on him, but he’s better now. Not redeemed, not good, but at least doing good.

            “No,” he says, agreeing with her. “But I was. Now, can we get outta here, or we gonna play twenty questions?”

            Parker looks ready to take him up on the offer, but Hardison shakes his head. “Let’s go, man,” he says. “Wanna check on the restaurant.”

            So Eliot drives through the city that’s become so familiar to him. He brings them to the pub and pulls up out front, idling the engine while they get out. Hardison looks at him.

            “Ain’t you comin’ in?” he asks.

            Eliot really does spend too much time here if Hardison honestly expects Eliot to just come in, like it’s home, like he belongs there. He shakes his head, and jerks his thumb to the back of his truck. “Gotta get this stuff home,” he says. “I’ll check in tomorrow. Have a good night.”

            They wave him off and Eliot waits until they’re inside, until he can see a light turn on in the office, before pulling away.

            His apartment isn’t too far, so it only takes a few minutes to get there. It takes him four trips to get everything into his place, but once he’s done, he locks the door and spreads it all over the main room, seeing what’s there.

            He still has to decide what to do with this stupid end table. He could bring it to Parker and Hardison’s place. It really would fit there. But that feels like intruding, bringing his stuff and planting it into their life. For now, it gets awkwardly wedged into the corner between the couch and the wall. He has to pull the couch out a few inches to do so, and as a result it overhangs the entryway to the kitchen, but, for now, it works.

            The weapons are still good, if in need of some care. He can keep those, find places to store them. It never hurts to have a few more knives around.

            The last box, he hasn’t touched yet. Taking it back outside and burning it is still an option, although it feels like one he won’t follow through on. Which means he has some incredibly damning contents to deal with.

            Another storage locker seems a bit much for one box. He could stick it in his closet, but that always runs the risk of having to burn the apartment and leave it all behind, and it’s too much of a risk for him to take. A safety deposit box might do it, though, if he can get a larger one. Parker could get into it, but not much short of Fort Knox is going to keep Parker out, anyways. He’s not really worried about determined thieves. There’s nothing in that box that someone would go out of their way to steal, just things he doesn’t want left behind or found.

            It’s decided, then. He’ll go to the bank in the morning. Maybe he’ll stop at the pub first, ask Parker her opinions on local bank security.

            He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. That settles everything for the night.

            He has two options, and sleep doesn’t seem to be one of them. He can sit around and grow more and more tempted to open the box, or he can go out for a run.

            He changes and pulls on sneakers. It’s getting dark out, and it’s probably not safe to go too far, but it’s been a long, long time since Eliot’s been afraid of what’s in the dark.

 

_Damien asked him to kill another family three months after the first._

_He didn’t ask in bed this time, at least. He called Eliot into his office in the middle of the day, explained that General Flores was becoming a nuisance and that Damien wanted him gone and his entire family with him to serve as an example._

_He had nodded and accepted the order, and left the office to make preparations._

_He wrote a note and left it under Damien’s pillow, where it would take him a few hours to find it. He didn’t say much. There wasn’t much to say. He was sorry. He would understand, if Damien did whatever had to be done. But he needed out._

_That evening, he went to Flores and dropped his guns at the man’s feet, went willingly to his knees when soldiers pushed him down, and looked up at the General and warned him of what was coming._

_Flores studied him, then told the soldiers to let him go. Eliot didn’t get up, just looked at the man who looked back at him._

_“Are you planning to return to Moreau?” he asked._

_Eliot shook his head. “I can’t,” he said._

_Flores looked him over and then nodded. “Well, then,” he said. “You’re welcome here.”_

_Eliot looked up at him. He was grateful for his life, even if it was only a temporary reprieve--who knew what Damien would do, once he found out what Eliot did--but he had never felt so lost._

 

            Eliot wakes up on his couch the next morning, a crick in his neck and his clothes still on. He groans and rubs the sleep out of his eyes, getting up and heading for the shower.

            He hears something move in his living room and shuts the water. He grabs the towel, throws it around himself, and opens the door, preparing himself for the worst.

            “What the hell?” he snaps, looking over the scene. Parker’s lounging on the couch, but Hardison is standing over the spilled contents of the box.

            “I...I tripped, man,” he says.

            Eliot studies his face for signs of guile, thinks that this may have been an elaborate scheme to see his private things. But Hardison genuinely looks worried, stressed out by Eliot’s reaction.

            Eliot turns his attention to the spilled items on the floor. Papers, photographs, all spilled out. He can’t see the bracelet, but he’s sure it’s buried under there somewhere.

            He sighs. “What’re you two doin’ here?” Eliot asks.

            “We missed you,” Parker says. “And we wanted breakfast.”

            He just saw them a little more than twelve hours ago, and they spent three days straight together. But he knows better than to argue. He missed them too.

            “Lemme put some clothes on,” he says, realizing he’s still in the towel.

            “You want me to pick it up?” Hardison asks, gesturing to the pile of stuff.

            Eliot shakes his head. “I’ll get it in a minute,” he says, before retreating to his bedroom to get dressed.

_Eliot knew Damien loved him because he left him alone. Anyone else would have died, for what Eliot did. But he let Eliot go._

_Eliot was never sure, before. But, knowing the truth, he thought he probably loved Damien too, and it hurt all the more, realizing it after everything was already ruined. But he couldn’t go back._

_He stayed with the general for a little while, just enough time to recover and prove to the man he wasn’t going straight back to Damien. He knew what Flores thought of him. Moreau’s guard dog, his trained killer, his lover. Ruthless, murderous Eliot Spencer. He was all that. That was what he made himself, what he was more than satisfied being. Now, severed--by choice, he always reminded himself viciously--from Damien, he would have to remake himself, and find a new purpose._

_He decided he no longer wanted to carry guns. That would be his first step in re-making himself. Perhaps he wouldn’t be a murderer any longer. There were plenty of other jobs for men with his skillsets._

_He was very good at adapting. It was about time he tried again._

_The night before he left, he went to Flores and told him. “If you ever need anything,” he said. “You call me, and I’ll come. I owe you.”_

_“If you ever need a place to stay,” Flores countered, “then you know where we are. Are you going to be okay?”_

_Eliot didn’t know. There was always the chance Damien was just biding his time, waiting to send someone after Eliot. He could have a bullet in his head the next day. More than that, Eliot hadn’t found himself unanchored as he was since he was eighteen. There was always a cause to serve. Damien had been the most personal, the one he invested the most in, and now he had given it all up. He wasn’t quite sure how to be so untethered, to work only for himself._

_“I will be,” he said._

_That night in the bedroom the Flores’ family so kindly lent him, he looked at the bracelet he had worn for nearly eight months. The leather looked as good as ever, finely crafted and wrought with promise._

_He unsnapped it and set it on the bed, staring at it. He needed to get used to having it gone, but his wrist felt impossibly bare. Over time, he would come to wear a collection of bracelets, bands, and watches, at first merely to eradicate the feeling of emptiness, then because he grew to like them. But he never again put on that soft, finely-crafted piece of leather, leaving it shoved at the bottom of his bag for several years._

_The next morning, he left before anyone else was awake, leaving his time with Moreau behind him, and taking the first flight he could get out of Italy._

 

            He comes back out, dressed this time, and hair brushed. He purposefully ignores the pile of stuff on his floor and heads for the kitchen, thinking about what he has to give them. French Toast is simple enough and nearly always makes them happy, so he gets started.

            He mixes the batter, then soaks the toast, then throws it into a pan. Hardison and Parker sit on his couch, waiting. The food doesn’t take long to come up, so he sets plates on the tables. The other two come in, Parker pulling out silverware, Hardison pouring juice. They sit down together and begin to eat.

            He remembers what he was thinking about the night before. He planned to go to the pub and ask Parker there, but since they’re here, he might as well ask. “Parker, if I wanted a safety deposit box, which bank should I pick?”

            “Pffft,” she says. “Buy a safe.”

            He shakes his head. “I don’t want it here. I want it safe, outta the way. Don’t ya’ll have stuff ya just don’t wanna lose?”

            Parker nods. “Bunny.”

            “Right,” Eliot says. “But I don’t need my stuff close by. So...a bank?”

            She gives him one, no more arguing, but Hardison is still looking at him funny.

            “Man, what is in that box?” he asks.

            “I’ve been ‘round, Hardison. I’ve got some stuff piled up.”

            “So it’s like a breakup box?” he asks.

            Eliot blinks. “I told you I had letters from my sister in there.”

            “A what?” Parker asks.

            “Breakup box,” Hardison explains. “It’s where you put all the stuff from old relationships. Things you don’t wanna lose but don’t wanna just leave lyin’ ‘round. An’ you told us you haven’t seen you sister in fifteen years. That sounds like a breakup.”

            It sort of is, Eliot realizes, in a strange way. Breakup with the military, breakups with friends and family, left behind for their own good. Aimee’s letters, the bracelet.

            He snorts, because it’s ridiculous, even if it is true. Eliot Spencer does not keep a breakup box, except maybe he does, and trust Hardison to manage to put it that way. He shakes his head. “Sure, I guess,” he says.

            “Aimee?” Parker asks.

            Eliot shrugs self-consciously. “Got some of her letters. Some pictures, too. Why are you two so interested in this?”

            “‘Cause we wanna know you, man,” Hardison says.

            “You do know me,” Eliot protests.

            Parker shakes her head. “Only a little. Only what you let us see. You know everything about us, but you’re a secret, Eliot.”

            He doesn’t know everything about them, but he does know a lot about them. They’re open with each other and with him. But Eliot’s older than them. He’s done more, had more time to do terrible things. And only one thing in that box is terrible, but it’s indicative of the worst thing he ever did, the worst thing he ever was, and he’s done so many terrible things. The last thing he wants to do is open that can of worms and have them dig, not if he can avoid it.

            “You know me now,” he says instead.

            Parker nods. “We like you,” she says simply. “We want to know the rest.”

            “No, you don’t,” Eliot says firmly.

            “We don’t need to see all your dirty laundry,” Hardison says. “Just…more.”

            The box seems so much smaller when they look at him like that. They already know, or can guess at, most of the things in there, anyways. Not all of it, but enough. They may hate him for it, or they may be able to live with it, but either way, he’s not going to know until he shows them. And he will show them, and he knows it. They ask, and he gives. It’s just how it is.

            “You wanna look? Go ahead,” Eliot says, turning to the stove. “Nothin’ much there to find.”

            Eliot almost expects them to dither about it, to make some half-hearted statements about respecting his privacy, but he should have known better. They’re thieves, after all. They’re across the room in an instant, digging through the pile, and it’s all Eliot can do to keep up. He sits in the ground next to them, leaning against the couch.

            Parker holds up a picture and studies it intensely. “I like your hair now better,” she decides. Eliot looks over her shoulder and snorts. There was a reason he never cut his hair anywhere near regulation again, after leaving the service.

            Hardison runs Eliot’s dog tags between his fingers. “Eliot Spencer’s your real name?” he checks.

            “You didn’t know?” Eliot asks. Born Eliot Michael Spencer to Michael and Diana Spencer, December fourth, 1975, just outside of Oklahoma City. He’d used a lot of names over the years, but, somehow, he’d always come back to Eliot.

            Hardison shrugs. “Can’t ever be sure with you, man.” Which means Hardison has looked, has dug into Eliot Spencer. Eliot’s had a lot of his past obscured over the years, but Hardison is good. The best, really. Eliot wonders what he managed to find.

            Parker is still looking through pictures. “Is this your sister?” she asks.

            Eliot looks and nods. “That’s Katie, and her husband, an’ that little bundle is Tommy, I guess.”

            “You’ve never met him?” Hardison asks, looking from the picture to Eliot. Eliot shakes his head. “You want to?”

            Eliot shrugs. He’s a danger to them and he knows it. Even if no one is actively following him, looking to make trouble, he can’t risk it, and besides, they deserve better in their life. Anyway, Eliot has a different family now, one that definitely deserves better too, but one that accepts him anyway, one that he’ll die for happily, when the time comes, and he’s content. “He wouldn’t even know me,” he says simply. They look at him for a moment, but Eliot refuses to back down and look away, so they turn back to the pile of objects.

            They go through the rest of the pictures and Eliot tries his best not to blush when Parker shamelessly, dispassionately, skims Aimee’s letters to him when he was overseas. He doesn’t stop her, though, because they asked for this, and he can give it to them, so he will.

            Hardison skims the drawings from Tommy that Katie used to send Eliot when the kid was small. Parker finds the paperwork for the trust he set up in Tommy’s name and makes a derisive comment about the bank. They split the stack of short, hand-written cards he has from school children, all addressed to “Mr. Soldier.”

            If they wanted his life without the dirty laundry, without the bodies and the blood and the mistakes, then this is the best he could ever give them. He feels like he’s done good, given them something good, until Hardison finds the last piece in the box. It was buried beneath the papers, but the shifting around had revealed it.

            “What’s this?” he asks, picking up the piece of leather, the only item in the box with little obvious explanation.

            Eliot swallows, because there is enough explanation if Hardison looks too closely.

            He wants to lie, to say it’s just a bracelet he must have left on the floor, say it’s nothing, make up a story, any story, for it. But he doesn’t lie to them anymore, won’t hold back anything they ask for, and certainly won’t lie about Damien Moreau ever again.

            Before Eliot can decide how to come clean, Hardison gets a good enough look at the inside of the bracelet, near the clasp, and asks, “who’s D.M.?”

            It’s quiet, but Eliot manages to get it out. “Damien Moreau.”

            Hardison drops the bracelet back onto the ground. “Man, why you have his shit?”

            “It was a gift,” Eliot says.

            “Why you still have it?” Hardison demands.

            Eliot shrugs. “You’re the one who called it a breakup box, Hardison.”

            “We talkin’ a figurative breakup with his crew, or…” he trails off.

            Eliot shrugs again. “Both, alright? Now you know. You wanted to know me. Now you know I spent eighteen months letting Damien Moreau fuck me. Like what you learned today?”

            “Did you love him?” Parker asks after only the slightest pause.

            Eliot wants to tell them to fuck off, to leave him alone, to take what they learned and go, get it over with quick and not drag it out. Instead, he takes a deep breath. “Maybe,” he says. “I think so.”

            “Did he love you?” she presses. She’s watching him steadily, seemingly more curious than damning. Somehow, that gives him strength.

            He shrugs. “I don’t know. I think so. Maybe.”

            “How d’you not know?” Hardison asks, and it’s a little cutting--everything about Moreau between the two of them always will be, Eliot figures, and he can accept that easily enough--but it’s also genuinely curious.

            He leans back against the couch and closes his eyes, wondering if they’ll disappear if he does so. No such luck. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “How do you…I don’t know. I ain’t good at love anyway an’ nothin’ with him was what I expected.”

            “Like what?” Parker asks.

            He sighs. They keep wanting more, always more. And, God help him, but he’s going to give it to them. If they throw him out on his ass after...well, at least they know the truth. “It wasn’t just sex,” he says finally. “It was supposed to be, but it wasn’t. It was...more. He cared ‘bout me. It was…” he trails off, not because he’s holding back, but because he doesn’t have the words.

            “Sounds like love,” Hardison says grudgingly, and Eliot closes his eyes again.

            “But then he made you do things,” Parker surmises. The way she says it makes it sound like Moreau forced him to have sex, raped him or something, and Eliot grimaces because the least complicated part of their relationship, the one Eliot understood and accepted and wanted the most, was always, always the sex. It was everything else that got complicated.

            “Not made,” Eliot says. “Asked. He asked, and I did, and yeah, they were bad things. Unless you’re sure you wanna know, think before asking for any more.”

            He opens his eyes and looks over at her and sees her shake her head. “I’m not going to ask,” she says quietly. Then, slightly louder, she says, “You’re not supposed to ask people you love to do bad things.”

            Eliot sighs. And therein lies the heart of everything. But he shrugs. “I was a bad person, Parker,” he says. “And it was my job, to do whatever he wanted. I was his number-two, his guard dog. That was…that was who I was.”

            “He still hurt you,” Parker says.

            He nods. “Yeah. And then he let me go. No one else woulda gotten to walk away. So he musta felt something.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Can we…are we done with this, now? Or you got somethin’ else to say?” He waits for the rejection, braces for it. Maybe they won’t say it outright. They still need him on the team, for now, at least. Maybe they’ll just leave, keep their distance, not want to be near Eliot Spencer, the guy who let Damien Moreau fuck him, who probably loved one of the worst people any of them ever crossed paths with.

            Hardison looks back at the bracelet, and the disgust isn’t gone from his eyes, but he doesn’t look like it’s going to bite him anymore, at least, and Eliot’s hopes rise that they can make something work, even if it’s not the same. “Sorry your thing with Moreau didn’t work out,” he manages to say. Eliot doesn’t expect that at all, tries to make sure he heard right. But it doesn’t sound like condemnation, not at all.

            Parker nods solemnly. “You’ll find better,” she says assuredly, and she too sounds so far from condemning him, he can’t even believe it.

            He already has found better, and he knows it. The two of them, less than a foot away from him. They’re it. It doesn’t matter if they’ll never love him back, it doesn't lessen what he feels for them. He’ll die for them happily, give them everything they need, take whatever they want to give in turn. Best of all, he knows they’ll never ask too much of him, never ask what he can’t give. They’re not only better, they’re the best. Too good, really, far too good for him.

            Eliot shrugs. “Told ya. I don’t do...that.”

            “You might. You have before,” Parker presses.

            “You satisfied pokin’ through my stuff now?” Eliot asks. “Wanna get it in a safety deposit box sometime today.”

            “Think Eliot’s done with the touchy-feely stuff,” Hardison says to Parker. He stretches, then turns to Eliot. “Yeah, man. We’ll get outta your hair. Come by the pub later?”

            Eliot nods, and they get up and leave, and it’s not until after they’re already gone that Eliot realizes they left all the breakfast dishes out.

 

            He shows up at the pub, a sheaf of papers and small little box now stowed inside a safety deposit box for safekeeping, something he doesn’t have to worry about anymore. He nods to the waitstaff and stops in the kitchen to check on things before pushing open the back doors.

            “Got us a job,” Hardison says, looking up from the couch when the door closes.

            “Already?” Eliot asks.

            Hardison shrugs. “She stopped by when we were away. Amy took her number. I gave her a call. She’s comin’ by in an hour, but sounds like a real case. You wanna meet her?”

            Eliot nods. “Where’s Parker?”

            Hardison waves an arm. “Doin’ Parker things. I dunno. She disappeared. Said she’d be back ‘fore Mrs. Ryland gets here.”

            “What’s the deal with this client?” he asks, going to the kitchen, opening the fridge.

            “Bring me a soda,” Hardison calls after him, and Eliot’s fingers close around a bottle of orange soda before he even looks for something for himself. He brings his beer and Hardison’s soda back, and sits opposite him on the couch.

            “Name’s Cara Ryland,” Hardison says. “Husband was paralyzed in a construction accident a year ago. He claims unsafe working conditions, the company underbid an’ was cuttin’ corners to keep the price down, all that. Only they can’t prove it an’ it fizzled in court.”

            Eliot nods. “So she needs us to prove the company is shady.”

            Hardison nods. “Should be easy, right?”

            Eliot sighs. Planning isn’t either of their things. Hardison tends to find the clients, Parker almost always does the planning. He keeps them all alive. “We’ll see what Parker’s gotta say,” he says.

            “I say we should go meet her, ‘cause she just got here,” Parker says.

            Eliot doesn’t even jump anymore, even if there should be no possible way for her to have entered the room without him noticing.

 

            The women seems legitimate and her story checks out and there’s definitely a job there. The only trouble is the construction company has left Oregon, hired an entirely new crew, and low-bid on some entirely new big jobs, in Chicago.

            Hardison’s positively gleeful. “Man, we never get to go to Chicago.”

            Hardison feels a sense of home in a way neither Eliot nor Parker understand anymore, if they ever did, but Eliot’s happy enough for him, if a visit to the city, even if to the wrong side of town, to run a job instead of to visit Nana, makes him happy.

            They fly out that night, taking only enough time to pack bags. Hardison produces three first-class tickets of dubious legal origins, and Eliot takes his.

            The flight is uneventful, mostly because Parker sleeps through it. Although, really, any flight would be uneventful after being on a plane being brought down and stopping it, still thirty-thousand feet in the air.

            Eliot sits behind them and watches over the seat backs, accepts a still-sealed bottle of water from a flight attendant. He smiles at her and she smiles back, and he’s not the type of guy to think everyone is just easy for him but he knows he has charm. Once, he might have tried.

            It’s not like loving them has put a halt in his sex life, because love and sex only have anything to do with each other, as far as he figures, when everyone involved wants them to. He’s only ever loved two people he’s slept with and he’s pretty sure he can say the same in reverse. He’s good at sex and he likes it and he’s never had any complaints, but that doesn’t make it anything besides just sex.

            But something inside him says, not in front of them. Maybe it’s just the day he’s having, with the bracelet and the whole messy story, remembering Damien Moreau and when they were together and what Eliot did and what kind of person that all makes him. Maybe it’s just them.

            He turns away from her pretty smile and looks contemplatively at his water. He pops the cap and drains half of it in one long swallow, then sets it down in the shallow cup holder and goes back to watching the back of their seats, keeping the rest of his senses open to the rest of the cabin.

            They land without any complications, and Parker is suddenly up and moving like she never even slept at all. Eliot rents them a car, a sturdy black SUV, and Hardison navigates them to a suitable hotel.

            He must have made the reservation online, because it takes two minutes at the check-in desk before he has keys and they’re heading upstairs. He hands them each a key and they get off on the fifteenth floor, only for Hardison to lead them to a two bedroom suite.

            Eliot closes his eyes. “Dammit, Hardison,” he mutters. He worried Parker’s little sleepover fascination would spill over past their road trip, would get into the job and muck things up there. Now, he’ll be spending the night only across a small sitting room from them for the foreseeable future.

            “What?” Hardison asks. “All they had left. It’s hard to book on short notice, people,” he says, and he’s clearly lying, but Eliot doesn’t call him on it, doesn’t want to fight. “‘Sides,” he continues. “You sleep in your room at the pub all the time. Same deal. Deal with it.”

            There, at least there’s a dozen yards between them. Here, it’s only a little better than the single room with two beds from the last few hotels.

            He wonders if they have sex during jobs. He bets they do, neither of them seem to have strict work ethics that would prohibit it. He wonders if they’ll have sex on this job, while he’s just through a flimsy wall. It would be sweet torture, and he would be a selfish, voyeuristic creepy asshole for enjoying any of it.

            He puts on a game face. “Fine,” he mutters, examining the two rooms. He picks the one closest to the suite door, sets his bag inside, then settles on the couch, waiting for Parker to run down the job for them.

 

            It’s simple enough. Eliot is going to join the construction crew, see what there is to see and hear what there is to hear on the ground. The crew should have some information, and Eliot knows what he’s looking for enough to be able to pull together some evidence for a lawsuit that scared employees might be unwilling to leak to lawyers and government workers.

            The wages are ridiculously low, but Hardison ran through the company’s employment practices before they showed up. They tend to hire people who can’t pass it up no matter how bad the pay is, those with shaky immigration statuses, or with criminal records, or just plain desperate. As a result, Hardison sets it up so Mac Gershwin, a freshly-made alias for Eliot, did a few years for robbery and Eliot signs on the dotted line before beginning his shift. Eliot understands what it is to be desperate and hates when people take advantage of it, and wonders how quickly and how hard they can bring this company down.

            Hardison is going in to meet the owner as an investigator willing to take bribes to make any and all investigations into shady practices go away. It’ll get them some cash, some leverage and, most importantly, it’ll get Hardison close enough to the computers to do what he does best and ruin the company. It’s a big grift, and they just have to hope Hardison can keep it together. Long cons still aren’t his thing, probably never will be, although he is getting a little better.

            Parker is going to do her thing and wipe out the safe, any and all paper files, whatever records they may have. She loves jobs where she gets to be a thief, where it’s simple, easy, clean.

            Overall, it’s an easy job. It’s not even much of a con, more like Hardison and Parker getting back to their thieving routes and Eliot waiting around for it to all fall into place. Eliot’s only objection is how far away he is from the others, him at the construction site, them at the office. Parker can take care of herself in most situations and even Hardison can punch out a suit if things gets close, and there’s no evidence the construction firm has any heavy hitters working security, but Eliot doesn’t like not being there to take care of them. But that’s what happens on a three-man team; sometimes, he has to fill other roles. He just has to hope everything goes to plan.

            It takes Hardison forty-five minutes to have complete access to their network once he’s in. Eliot’s already worked a five hour day, and he’s seen less safe labor sites, but they usually involved forced labor in third world countries.

            “Got the safe,” Parker says, her voice mixing with Hardison’s as he talks to the mark. Eliot grunts in acknowledgement.

            “You say something, Mac?” the guy next to him asks. Eliot thinks he remembers his name being Jake, but no one around here seems too eager to make friends. Eliot shakes his head and looks back at the work at hand.

            “Hardison, blow him off,” Parker orders. “Eliot, we’re coming to pick you up.”

            Eliot grunts again and listens to Hardison assure the mark that he’ll call him tomorrow.

            Then it sounds like Hardison and Parker are in the car, Hardison crowing about his grifting and Parker complaining about the weak safe. It’s lulling, almost, and Eliot finds himself half-smiling as he listens to them.

            “Holy shit!” someone shouts. “¡Atención!”

            Eliot looks around, but he sees the cracking floor too late. The material seems to be crumbling away, and his first instinct is to shove the guy next to him away, back onto the still-solid section of floor. The flooring continues to crumble, probably further stressed by the moving bodies, and Eliot has great reflexes, but he can’t do anything as the floor opens up and swallows him.


	4. Chapter Four

            He wakes up in a bed. His head in throbbing and he doesn’t want to open his eyes, but he’s almost positive he’s alive. He stretches slightly and it hurts incredibly, but he’s mostly not broken. Maybe one arm, but the rest just feels terribly bruised.

            “He’s awake,” Parker says.

            Eliot groans and finally risks opening his eyes. His head throbs, but his eyes manage to mostly focus on Hardison and Parker.

            Parker grins. “We stole an ambulance.”

            Eliot groans again. That’s the type of thing that causes messes, but right now he can only trust that they took care of it, that there’s not a stolen ambulance parked outside of…

            “Where the hell am I?” Eliot manages to ask. It’s not a hospital, not the hotel. He’s in a twin size bed with well-washed, worn sheets. There’s an identical bed across the room, and half the room has basketball posters, the other half some movie posters. The whole place smells like sweaty teenage boy, but, underneath that, there’s some smell of home, fresh food and clean, that seems to pervade wherever they are.

            Hardison shrugs. “You don’t like hospitals. Fine. Well, man, you were out, an’ we kinda freaked. Took you the next best place.”

            “Which is…?” Eliot asks.

            “Nana’s,” Hardison says.

            Eliot groans. Of course Hardison would take him there, of course he would panic and drag the poor woman into all this. And, for that matter, he’s in some kid’s bed, some poor kid who probably doesn’t have anywhere else to sleep. “Whose bed am I in?”

            Hardison shrugs. “One of her new kids. Name’s Peter. He’s still at school.”

            So he hasn’t been out that long, if they’re still in the middle of the school day, and Eliot is grateful for small mercies.

            “What’d she have to say?” Eliot asks.

            Parker pokes his shoulder and he grimaces. “Said you were an idiot,” she says solemnly. “But that you’d live.”

            It’s as good a diagnosis as any, Eliot figures, so he moves on to more important matters. “The other guys?”

            “All evacuated, all fine,” Hardison promises him. “We leaked everything we found to the papers soon as the story of what happened hit the news, then faxed it all to the Rylands. Company should be goin’ down hard.”

            “Good,” he manages to say. He’s sorry that everyone is going to be losing their jobs, but at least they won’t be in such gross danger anymore. Still, they’ll have to see if they can do something for them, fix things somehow.

            Hardison seems to read his mind. “There’s some workers’ rights organization tryin’ to sue, get all the workers compensation. Should help a bit.” Eliot nods tiredly. It’s a start.

            Parker pushes his hair back from his face. “You okay?” she asks quietly.

            He nods again, and it makes his head throb even more, but he’s had a lot worse and the least he can do is be a little reassuring, right then.

            “Man, you fell almost thirty feet, you’re lucky you didn’t break your damn neck,” Hardison says. “Be honest.”

            Eliot hasn’t even met Hardison’s Nana, but he has a feeling the man is starting to channel her a bit. “I have a miserable concussion, think my left arm is broken. Rest of me is a giant bruise,” he confesses. “Happy?”

            “Ecstatic,” Hardison says, rolling his eyes. “I’m gonna tell Nana you’re awake.”

            “Tell her we can get outta her hair soon,” Eliot says.

            Hardison shakes his head. “She ain’t gonna want to hear it. Lie down and relax.”

            Eliot would protest that he’s already doing both, but Hardison is already out the door.

            As soon as he’s gone, Parker takes Eliot’s hand. He tries to shake her off, but it’s the broken arm and it sends waves of pain up his arm, so he stops. “Parker,” he growls warningly.

            “What?” she asks. “We were worried about you. You stopped making noises on the comms and we heard the crash and then we stole an ambulance to come rescue you and you weren’t moving. You scared us.”

            He takes a deep breath. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he says. He doesn’t make any useless promises, like he won’t do it again, because it will happen again, and it’s better that they just accept it, get used to it. If they start now, then someday, when it’s too much for him to handle and he finally loses a fight for real, when he dies on the job the way most hitters go out, it will be easier for them to take.

            The door opens back up, and Eliot tries to loosen Parker’s hold on him before Hardison and Nana walk in, but she doesn’t let go. Hardison doesn’t comment, just stands behind Parker.

            Nana is a larger, older, women, but Eliot doesn’t doubt she’s capable of running around after and keeping her horde of unruly kids in line. She crosses her arms sternly, and her face is set into a scolding look, but he can see the smile lines around her mouth, not quite hidden by the rest of the wrinkles on her face probably caused by stress.

            “Well, boy, you certainly did yourself a number,” she says.

            “Yes, ma’am,” Eliot says. He realizes then that he doesn’t know Nana’s real name, but he also figures that this woman hasn’t been called anything besides Nana and ma’am longer than he’s been alive, and he’s certainly not going to be the one to subvert that.

            “How’re you feelin’?” she asks.

            “Okay, ma’am,” he says. “Got a concussion an’ my arm might be broken, but if that’s the worst of it, I got damn lucky.”

            She nods. “You’re damn right. Now, Alec here seems to think you’ve had worse?”

            Eliot smiles faintly. “Yes, ma’am.”

            “Well, I don’t care,” she says abruptly. “I don’t let my kids run ‘round ready to drop dead. Alec was mine, and you’re all his, which makes you mine too. Which means you’ll stay here ‘til I say you’re good to go, you get me?”

            Eliot smiles a bit. He can’t help it. There’s just something about her. Maybe there’s something about being called Hardison’s, too, but he thinks a large part of it is due to this woman, glaring him into submission. “Loud and clear, ma’am,” he says. “You gotta sling? And some aspirin?”

            “Don’t move,” she warns him, and leaves the room, presumably to procure the items.

            Hardison grins. “She likes you two,” he says quietly.

            Eliot doesn’t know why he’s so happy. Sure, he can see why Nana liking Parker would be important. He knows the two of them have talked about Parker meeting her for a few years now. But Eliot is just the friend, and he’ll probably never see her again.

            Nana comes back with the sling and the aspirin and some water, and it’s only when he goes to sit up so he can secure the sling does Eliot realize Parker’s still holding his hand. “Parker,” he growls. She looks at him a moment, daring him, almost, drawing it out, before letting go.

            Hardison beats him to the sling, securing it around Eliot despite Eliot’s protests that he can do it himself. Nana just smirks.

            “Think they’ll take fine care of you,” she says. “Now, you excuse me, I have laundry to do.”

            “You need help?” Hardison calls after her.

            “You got somethin’ to do, boy,” she calls back.

            Eliot wants to insist he doesn’t need to be cared for, but Parker’s handing him the aspirin and the water, and, once he’s swallowed the pill and drank the water, Hardison’s carefully pushing him back down.

            “Get some more sleep,” Hardison encourages, so Eliot closes his eyes.

            They’re touching him. Parker has her hand on his shoulder, fingers gentle, and Hardison pushes his hair back and lets his hand linger. Eliot can never sleep with people in his space, especially people touching him. It’s next to impossible.

            He falls asleep within a few minutes.

 

            Nana pulls the poor boys from their bedroom and sets them up in sleeping bags in the living room. Eliot feels bad, but they’re both about thirteen and he hears them excitedly murmuring about being near the TV all night. Eliot can’t help but smirk at that, because he would bet his entire savings that Nana’s ears are sharp enough to hear the quietest TV turned on after hours.

            Eliot stays in Peter’s bed, and Parker is given Gabe’s, while Hardison is given yet another sleeping bag and a pillow to set up on the floor. Eliot volunteers to take the floor, tries to explain that he doesn’t sleep much, that sleeping during the day pretty much guaranteed he won’t sleep all night, and that someone who’s sleeping should have the bed, but they just look at him long and hard, and he gives up. Hardison’s feet would probably hang over the end, anyways.

            Nevertheless, he doesn’t sleep. Hardison snores and Parker has gone still, actually asleep, at least for a little while. But he’s still awake, looking at the ceiling.

            Finally, he heaves himself out of bed, wincing the entire time. There’s no one around to stifle the expressions for, although he does keep quiet, lest he wake the others.

            He leaves the room silently and creeps through the house. He doesn’t know the place at all but the layout isn’t complicated. He finds the kitchen quickly enough, being careful to keep quiet as he passes by bedrooms and passes through the currently occupied living room.

            He looks around, debates cooking something, but it might wake someone up and, besides, he’s sure Nana has budgeted her kitchen down to the last dime and he’s not going to be the one to mess with that. Instead, he gets himself a glass of water and sits at the table, picking the chair against the wall.

            He hears the footsteps when they’re on the stairs, but he already recognizes them. He relaxes back into his chair.

            Nana crosses her arms and frowns at him. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

            Eliot holds up the glass a few inches. “Got thirsty.”

            “Hmmph,” she says. “That’s what you have those two for. Make them get you your water.”

            Eliot shakes his head, which still hurts something awful, but is improving slowly. “They’re asleep,” Eliot says. “Not gonna wake ‘em. ‘Sides, I can get water.”

            She raises an eyebrow and Eliot hasn’t felt this small since his mama was still around. “You listen here, boy, those two would want you to wake ‘em. They look at you and see the damn world, and if you don’t think they’d get you a glass of water when you need your rest, then you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought.”

            Eliot flushes. “I think you’re...I’m their friend,” he says. “Their co-worker. The muscle,” he says quietly. “I’m good on the team and they like me and they’re the best friends I could ever hope to have. Too good, really. But it’s not...like that.”

            “You don’t think they could look at a friend like that? Don’t think they care ‘bout their friends?”

            Eliot’s flush deepens. He never trips over himself this much, and he wonders if it’s Nana’s special skill, or just talking about Hardison and Parker. “Of course not. I--I told ya. Best friends anyone could ever want. Just...what you were sayin’, sounded like somethin’ else.”

            “Only if you want it to,” she says.

            Eliot takes a deep breath. “Not about what I want,” he says.

            “Of course it’s about what you want,” she says, taking his glass from him and going to the tap, filling it once more. She hands it back to him. “I know my boy,” she says quietly. “And if what you want is friendship, then my boy will be the best friend in the world to you. That girl too, I imagine. If what you want is something else, something more...they’d give you that, too.”

            Eliot shakes his head in denial, fingers fiddling with the edge of the glass. “They wouldn’t--they--it’s not like that,” he says. They’re happy and whole and they belong together, and Eliot is a mess of broken, ragged edged pieces that have no business being near other people, nevermind a relationship like Parker and Hardison’s. He doesn’t tell her that exactly, though maybe she understands anyways. She has this way of looking right through him, and Eliot thinks it’s a wonder Hardison ever got away with anything as a kid.

            She raises an eyebrow again. “I’m not here to tell you how to work your relationship,” she says. “I’m here to tell you to go back to bed. Now, scoot. You’ve distracted me long enough.” She waves a hand at him, and Eliot knows better than to cross her.

            Eliot takes the half-full glass and walks off, careful as he moves through the house, although it looks like everyone is still sleeping.

            When he gets back to the bedroom, Parker has reached down from her bed, her fingers gently touching Hardison’s chest, and the sight makes something inside Eliot tighten up.

            He shakes his head and lies down. Things have just been a little strange lately, between what he’s managed to dig up and what he told them and how much time they’ve all spent together. A little time, maybe a tiny bit of distance, and things will go back to normal.

 

            Eliot wakes up the next morning to find an empty room. He hates sleeping off concussions, hates how they makes him slow and sloppy and groggy, because he should have noticed the other two getting up and leaving.

            But he didn't. He tests out his body, stretching and turning, careful of the broken arm. It's as good as it's going to get, he figures, so he gets out of bed and does the best he can to make it with only one hand. For good measure, he makes the other one too, because Parker left the blankets piled at the foot.

            Then he follows the noises of the house downstairs to the kitchen. The older kids seem like they've already left for school, but the two youngest are still at the table, along with Parker and Hardison.

            "Morning, sleeping beauty," Hardison teases.

            "We thought you were never gonna get up," Parker says. "Nana made eggs."

            She did, and they smell delicious, so Eliot sits at the table, squeezing between one of the young girls and Hardison. "I'm Eliot," he says to her, smiling slightly.

            "Janice," she says through a mouthful of eggs, looking at him through her hair.

            "What'd I say 'bout talking with a full mouth?" Nana asks without turning around.

            Janice swallows. "Sorry, Nana."

            The little boy looks at Eliot shyly. "What's your name?" Eliot asks.

            "Anthony."

            "Nice ta meet ya," Eliot says.

            Nana sets a plate of eggs in front of him. "Finish up, you two," she says. "You gotta get to school."

            Anthony starts shoving eggs into his mouth and Janice finishes off the last few bites. Then the two of them bring their plates to the sink before running off, leaving just Hardison, Parker, Eliot, and Nana.

            Eliot eats his eggs. They are really good, and he understands now why his eggs have been the one food item Eliot makes that Hardison doesn't seem very impressed by.

            "Want more?" Nana asks, sitting down with a plate of her own. Eliot shakes his head.

            “Eliot don’t eat much in the morning,” Hardison says, and Eliot’s almost surprised that he noticed that. He’s eaten plenty of breakfasts with them, but he never talks about it. Yet Hardison noticed.

            “You all headed out today?” Nana asks next.

            Hardison nods. “Think so.”

            She looks at him and Eliot turns to his eggs, feeling like he’s intruding. “You come ‘round more, you hear? Bring them along, too. Don’t stay away so long.”

            Hardison nods, and Eliot chances a look up only to immediately look down again. Hardison’s eyes are wet. “I will.”

            “You come for Thanksgiving,” she says. “You hear me?”

            Eliot looks up again, because she’s asking all three of them, not just Hardison. Hardison promises he will, Parker nods along. Eliot hesitates, but he’s not going to tell her no, especially not in front of Hardison. So, he nods.

            She nods, satisfied. “I got things to do,” she says. “You finish your food, then come say goodbye.”

            She leaves them alone. Parker and Hardison already have empty plates, and Eliot keeps eating his eggs. Once he finishes, he stacks all three plates in one hand and carries them to the sink.

            “Hey, you’re supposed to be resting,” Parker objects.

            Eliot shrugs. “I don’t mind,” he says quietly. He doesn’t. It’s only different from when they left piles of French Toast dirty dishes at his house the other day because he’s down an arm, but it’s the same thing. He takes care of them. They’re slobs, but they’re his slobs, and he doesn’t mind it at all anymore.

            “Thanks,” Hardison says. “How you feel this morning?”

            Eliot shrugs again. “Fine. I’ve had worse, you know.”

            “Yeah, we know,” Hardison says, and Eliot can hear the eyeroll. “Jus’...be more careful.”

            Eliot snorts. “I fight for a living, Hardison,” he says. “And I went in there when we all knew it was probably unstable. That’s my job.”

            “Well, I don’t want it to be,” Parker says suddenly. “We need you to not be dead.”

            He grins at her. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “You’re about twenty years too late to change my career path. Do my best to stay alive, though. I have you two to take care of, don’t I?”

            “Yeah,” Hardison says emphatically. “Ya do. Now, come sit down a minute so Parker can check that concussion.”

            Eliot rolls his eyes, but does as he asks.

 

            The goodbye to Nana is a nearly tearful hug that Parker and Eliot awkwardly wait off to the side through. When she finishes hugging Hardison, she approaches each of them. She squeezes Parker’s shoulder but doesn’t say anything. Then she reaches Eliot, squeezes his good shoulder, and says “smarten up” before heading back into the house.

            Eliot rolls his eyes once he’s sure she’s not looking, because that woman is determined.

            They don’t have a car, so they end up having to take a cab back to where Parker and Hardison abandoned the SUV. The three of them press into the backseat of the cab, and somehow Eliot ends up in the middle. Hardison is careful of his arm but nevertheless Hardison and Parker both end up completely pressed against him.

            Finally, they make it to the SUV, and Eliot sprawls out in the back, letting Hardison drive and Parker sit next to him. They bicker about directions all the way back to the hotel, but eventually they make it.

            Eliot remembers the suite when they get to the door, groaning. “We leavin’ today?” he asks. He tries to disguise how hopeful his voice is, but he can’t help it. He wants to go to his own apartment, put some distance between them until things resolve into how they used to be.

            Hardison shrugs. “You good to fly?” he asks.

            “Yeah,” Eliot says, heading for the sink and grabbing a glass.

            “Then I can get us tickets. Gimme five minutes,” Hardison says.

            Eliot drinks his water and Parker moves to look out the balcony window while Hardison pulls out his phone. “Okay, got us a flight in three hours, grabbed three business class seats, best I can do. We gotta haul if we wanna make it.”

            They grab their bags, check out, and drive to the airport. Once there, they return the car and get through security, and then they get on the plane and leave Chicago behind.

 

            The flight back to Portland is non-eventful, mostly because Eliot doesn’t sit with the other two. With Hardison grabbing seats so late, the best he can do is two seats together, one three rows back. But Eliot doesn’t mind. Some time to himself sounds good, right then.

            Once they land, Hardison and Parker insist he comes back to the pub and he’s weak for them, so he gives in. They give half a dozen reasons, ranging from needing to debrief to not having eaten yet and that they’ll starve without him to that he technically has a head injury, and shouldn’t be on his own.

            Eliot cooks for them, keeps it simple and makes big bowls of pasta with homemade sauce he made and froze one day a month ago and a loaf of bread Parker grabs him from the pub when he asks. Hardison grabs them beers, and they all sit around the table, enjoying a quiet dinner.

            Then Hardison breaks the peace and says, “I was talkin’ to Nana before you got up this morning.”

            Eliot swallows. “Yeah?”

            Hardison nods. “Yeah. Says you were up late.”

            Eliot shrugs. “I told ya, I wasn’t gonna be able to sleep much.” He pauses a few seconds. “She say anything else?”

            “She says you’re an idiot,” Parker adds happily.

            Eliot rolls his eyes. “Heard that before,” he says. It seems to be a common theme.

            “She says we’re idiots, too,” Hardison continues. “An’ apparently communication is the key to all good relationships an’ we need to work at it an’ get our asses in gear.”

            Well, that seems a bit weird, so Eliot raises an eyebrow and waits for the explanation.

            "Also, there’s no such thing as the right time and if you don’t go for it, then you may lose it and never get a second chance,” Parker recites.

            “Alright,” Eliot says, still waiting for some explanation.

            Hardison clears his throat, clearly deciding to finally clear things up a bit. “Look, Parker an’ I...we’ve wanted somethin’ for a while now. An’ we haven’t been sure, what you wanted, how you felt, if it was a good idea, all of it, man, Eliot...but Nana’s right. We want it, an’ maybe you want it too, an’ if that’s true, then…”

            “Spit it out, already, Hardison,” Eliot says, his whole body tense like a bowstring pulled taut. If Nana put any ideas in their heads about what he may want, then things could get ugly.

            “We want you,” Parker blurts out. “With us. Always. And not just in your room. We want our room to be your room. To be all of our room. If you want it too. And we want you to do...all that stuff with us. Cook for us and hold us and be there with us.”

            Eliot shakes his head. “Why?” he asks.

            “Because we...care ‘bout you. ‘Cause we have feelin’s for you. What do you mean, why?” Hardison asks. “That ain’t a why question, man.”

            “Yes, it is,” Eliot growls. “Why would you want me? Why’re you askin’ me this? Did Nana--that woman sees everythin’, what exactly did she say to you?”

            “We told you,” Parker says, clearly frustrated. “She told us maybe we won’t get a chance if we don’t ask you. Maybe next time something really bad would happen and we never would have told you and none of us would know. And that would be awful.”

            So, it’s fear then. “Parker,” he says gently. “You’re not gonna lose me if you don’t do this. I’ll still be here. I’ll still be on your team and your friend and I’ll still cook for you and be around. Promise.”

            She shakes her head fiercely. “It’s not about that! It’s not...keeping you, or making you stay. We don’t do that!”

            She sounds distressed, so Eliot raises a conciliatory hand. “Whoa, sweetheart. Okay. Calm down. I’m sorry. How ‘bout you talk, an’ I shut up an’ listen? Explain this to me.”

            “Not much to explain, Eliot,” Hardison says, and Eliot just raises an eyebrow, because there are miles of explanations for this, he’s just missing them, missing something that will make this all make sense.

            “We love you!” Parker bites out, and Eliot’s head whips around. “I love you like I love Hardison and Hardison loves you, too, and we want you forever.”

            Eliot looks between them, unable to speak. Hardison nods. “She’s right,” he says gently. “We love you. And maybe, you like us like that, too?”

            “Why?” Eliot manages to ask again. They open their mouths, presumably mad about going around in circles, but Eliot cuts them off. “No, listen. It’s a real question. An important one. Why on earth would you love me?” he asks. He laughs shakily a bit. “The other day you saw that box, saw that old bracelet, an’ I thought you might tell me to get lost. Thought at least you’d look at me different. But here you are, askin’ me to start a...what, a relationship? A relationship with ya’ll. You tellin’ me it didn’t change how you feel ‘bout me, knowin’ I fell in love with the most twisted, evil guy we’ve ever met? That I let him lead me ‘round and loved most every minute? That I still get half-twisted up over him?”

            “But you love us too, right?” Parker asks, and Eliot’s indignation deflates. She states it like a fact, even though he’s never said the words. But she can see him. She knows him. They both do.

            “I love you both--more. First. Only. Most of all,” he says stumbling over the words, none quite fitting but all conveying something he wants to say. “But that shouldn’t matter. You shouldn’t want--you should want better for yourselves.”

            “Eliot, we’re all a little fucked up, kay?” Hardison says. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you that we can’t handle. An’ we’ve wanted this for a long time. Talked about it an’ everythin’. Just didn’t know how to tell you. Kept hoping it would just…work out. Guess Nana was right ‘bout the importance of communication.”

            Eliot opens his mouth, presumably to protest again, although he has no idea what he wants to say. Thankfully, Hardison cuts him off. “‘Sides, don’t we get to choose what we want?” he asks, and Eliot can’t argue that. “‘Cause I really, really want the both you you. Parker?”

            Parker nods. “I really, really want you both,” she says. “Eliot?”

            He swallows. It’s all down to him now. He’s out of arguments, and he’s not going to convince them. But they won’t ask him for anything he’s not willing to give, he’s always known that, so if he says no right now, he can put a stop to everything.

            But he doesn’t want to. He wants them, and Hardison’s right, they do get to decide what they want. And if their decision is impossibly, incredibly, improbably him, then who is he to argue?

            He can’t find the words right away, so he nods his head, the movement shaky. “Yes,” he manages after a moment. “Yeah, I want you two.”

            They move faster than he’s ever seen them move before, pushing their chairs back and moving to Eliot’s side of the table, pulling him out of his seat and into their arms. Parker’s laughing a bit and Hardison’s smile is so wide his face looks like it’ll split open, and then they’re leaning in to him, and between their inexperience and their joy, their first three-way kiss is messy and uncoordinated, with much bumping of noses and chins before they actually manages to get any sort of press of lips together, but Eliot thinks it’s better than any other kiss he’s ever had. He gets an arm around each of them, and refuses to let go.

 

  _Once Damien Moreau was in the tombs, locked in a cell and never getting out, Eliot had the urge to see him._

_His last view of the man was as he got on a plane, leaving a pissed-off Eliot behind with Nate and the Italian as she bled out. He couldn’t get the image out of his head, Moreau on the plane steps._

_He resisted going down into the tombs. They would have let him. The guards had seen him with Flores, knew he had Flores’ blessing, and he could have gone down and made his peace or raged or done whatever he wanted to do. But he had nothing to say, no speeches planned. Honestly, he was afraid to speak to the man again. Last time, he had realized even the intervening years had not fixed whatever inside of Eliot Moreau had broken, not entirely._

_So he sat at the guard station and watched the cell on closed-circuit television. Moreau paced the tomb cell, a far cry from lavish suites with big beds and luxury sheets, meals at fine restaurants and expensive wines. It almost hurt, to see him fall so far, but it felt right, too._

_Eliot watched for hours. He didn’t know what else to do, really, now that this part of his life finally looked over, really over, locked behind bars and unlikely to leave again._

_Morning came, and it was time to meet the others to head for the airport. Eliot took one last look at the broken man in the dingy cell, then turned away from the monitors and left them behind._

_His people were upstairs, and it was time he returned to them._

 

            Eliot wakes up when sun begins to peek through the blinds, an incredibly rare occurrence in and of itself. But it’s even rarer for him to find himself in an occupied bed, and one he doesn’t immediately recognize, at that.

            Then it all comes back to him. Hardison, Parker, the night before. He looks over, checking to make sure it all wasn’t the most elaborate, desperate dream he’s ever had. But it’s real.

            Hardison is in the middle, Parker and Eliot each on one side. Eliot has his broken arm on the outside so it doesn’t get jostled, but his other arm is around Hardison, and Hardison seems to have been sleeping on his shoulder through the night. His face scrunches up as Eliot moves, and Eliot barely resists the urge to kiss his nose, not sure yet if that’s weird or okay or what the rules are.

            Parker’s on the other side, and she was sleeping on Hardison’s chest. She’s awake now, peering at Eliot. Her hair is a rumpled mess around her face and Eliot realizes with a pang she’s wearing the shirt she stole from him on their little roadtrip to LA. She looks beautiful.

            She grins at him. “Pancakes?” she asks.

            He can’t help but smile back. He leans over Hardison to kiss her, then decides to hell with it and presses a soft kiss to Hardison’s forehead while carefully pulling his arm out from beneath him, trying his best not to disturb him.

            “Pancakes,” he agrees, carefully climbing out of bed. Only he's less steady when he's down an arm, and his movement seems to wake Hardison.

            "Here's an idea," he sleepily grumbles. "We could not move an' let me sleep to a decent hour, like normal people."

            Parker and Eliot both lay back down again, and none of the three of them make it back to sleep, but a couple hours spent just holding each other seems as good a use of their time as any. Eliot can hardly believe it, but he worms his arm back under Hardison and reaches it out so he can touch Parker too, and Parker lies practically on top of Hardison so she can put a hand on Eliot's chest, the warmth of it seeping through his shirt and grounding him as well as anything. They're warm and solid and real and touching him, and he can hardly believe it, but here it is, constant, irrefutable proof that this is real, that they are real and they want him and the three of them are a thing now.

            They do eventually get pancakes, and it feels just like any other morning except none of them can keep their eyes off of each other and no one bothers to hide it now, and, when he sets down stacks of pancakes in front of them, he gets kisses for his trouble. If this is his life now, Eliot decides, than he'll gladly take it, latch on with both hands and never, ever let it go.


End file.
